


Danse Macabre

by Rovardotter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Dark Near Future, Codependency, Daddy Issues, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Metropolitan Police Service Memorandum</em>
</p><p>#1: Robert (Robb) Stark, 18. University student. Heir to Stark Industries<br/>#2: Theon Greyjoy, 23. Security operative. Family deceased/whereabouts unknown<br/>#3: Jon Snow, 18. Unemployed. Minor drug dealing charges. No known family</p><p>All suspects are considered armed and extremely dangerous.</p><p> <strong>***</strong></p><p>Chapter 16, in which Robb's bandages cover more than scrapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lament of Pretty Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ASOIAF Kink Meme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Original Prompt was _Robb/Jon/Theon; Modern serial killer AU._  
>  _They have a codependent super sick relationship AND they are serial killers running from the law_  
>  _\+ if Stannis is the detective on their traces_
> 
> Many thanks to [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for listening to my crazy ideas and saving me from potential embarrassment <3
> 
> As always, so many thanks to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), First of His Name, King of all Betas and Warden of the Oxford Dictionary <3
> 
> Now with a brilliant [fanmix](http://8tracks.com/oberynn/psycho-boy), courtesy of [redpaint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint), for which many heartfelt thanks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys give a man a good last show.

The blood is still warm on Robb's hands when Theon pulls him by the collar and shoves a thumb into his mouth. He's on all fours, trousers down to his knees, and the sounds of the night city, skidding cars and siren wails, turn muffled in his ears. Jon kicks the knife – no, that would be _the murder weapon_ now, wouldn't it? – to the other side of the room before he settles behind Robb.

"That's right." Theon presses on Robb's tongue. "Give the man a good last show."

The man seems quite unable to appreciate it in his current state; he flails his legs, his fingers clamp around his throat where Robb's cut him from ear to ear. A gurgle escapes his parted lips along with a fresh spurt of blood. Shock is still written on his face, well, he never saw _this_ coming, did he, and he's just realised that he's about to die. Robb stares at those stunned eyes, starts to suck Theon's thumb to the beat of the man's burbles as Jon grabs his hips, positions his ass higher.

"Come on." That's Theon, his other hand moves to Robb's hair. "Don't keep your brother waiting."

Jon grunts in response; he was never much for words, not for beating around the bush, either. He enters him, one firm shove, and Robb nearly chokes.

"All right?" Jon asks.

"Sure, he's all right," Theon replies, since Robb can't, not when he sucks like a good little boy and watches the life slowly spilling out of the man, staining his crisp white suit deep red. "You love it, don't you, kid?" Another finger enters his mouth. "To be used like that."

Jon pushes deeper into him.

"A golden son, an heir to a fortune," Theon says. "Loves to be fucked like a little bitch."

"Our bitch," Jon murmurs.

"We're done with your games." Fingers graze his gums. "Now it's us who decide."

Jon concurs: "No more games."

Robb hums, nods, sucks harder, because he needs Theon to keep on talking, needs Jon to agree with him, and usually it's Robb who calls the shots, always has been, but it's this feeling, when they overpower him, tell him how they're about to fuck him until he's torn like that bloke dying next to them, yes, that's what he really craves. He doesn't mind the teasing; he's an open book to them, taking in their words just as he takes in their cocks. And it's his special night, he's made the kill. He deserves to be used.

"Want him to go faster?" Theon asks, but Jon already does, rams fully into him and Robb feels the buttons of his shirt pressing into his back, his balls slamming against his ass, his own brother cramming him with flesh, nails digging into his skin.

"Yes, like that," Theon says, hooks his middle finger under Robb's chin, lifts his head, and the man convulses, pulls on flaps of cut skin, claws at his throat. "Jon's gonna fuck you harder than ever before, and me, I'll stuff your manipulative, cocksucking mouth. We'll fill you up. Just the way little Robb Stark likes it."

Jon pulls out, spreads Robb's legs farther apart.

"Don't worry," Theon says, and Jon slams right back into him. Robb cries softly, tilts his head to look up, because the man's eyes have grown vacant, and Theon's are warm with affection.

"We'll give you what you need," Theon tells him.

 

*******

 

Robb is thirteen when he first meets Theon, and he's not at all what Robb has expected. They're in the inner courtyard of his parents' house. Sansa sits on the shady bench and reads a fairy tale to Rickon; Bran climbs the oak tree and Arya digs at the ground, her fingers are right filthy. And Robb thought he'd be bigger, bulkier – well, _scarier_ – but this guy is tall, slender, with tanned skin and fine dark hair almost covering his blue eyes.

Robb ogles the pistol strapped to Theon's hip. "So you'll be with me," he starts. "All the time?"

"Well, I have off-hours," Theon says. "But basically, yeah."

"Even when I sleep?"

"Even then," he says. "So better get used to me, kid."

Robb shrugs. Ever since he was returned home, he hasn't got used to very much at all. The house seems unfamiliar – no, _unheimlich_ , that's the word – and his siblings' laughter distant. The nocturnal noises startle him, and he wakes up drenched in cold sweat, alone in his bed. He's not sure if he needs a bodyguard, he would've liked someone to talk to, someone who'd listen, but his parents don't believe in therapy, very few people do these days. Instead he has this Greyjoy bloke: his handsome face, his smirk and pistol.

Robb shows him around the mansion; they stroll through the parlour, the drawing room, by the indoor swimming pool.

"This?" Theon asks, cocks his brow.

"Father's wine cellar," Robb says. "I don't go there."

"Why?" Even his smile is crooked. "Caught stealing Daddy's vintages?"

Robb blinks; what a horrible thought, he'd never do that. "I didn't say I wasn't allowed," he clarifies. "I just don't. It's dark."

"Hit the light switch."

Robb shakes his head. While Theon is here to protect him, he clearly doesn't understand the first thing about nightly horrors or strangers hiding in the dark. Robb wonders just how much Father's told him at all. "Yeah," he finally says. "But until then."

Theon's face softens; he places his hand over Robb's shoulder and pats it lightly. "You're safe now," he says. "No one's ever going to touch you, not while I'm around."

Later, after dinner, after Robb sits with his father in the study, Theon tucks him into bed. No, he doesn't, not really, but it almost feels that way. Robb changes into his pyjamas, brushes his teeth, while Theon secures the room, locks the windows, draws the curtains. He moves swiftly, professionally; he knows what he's doing, and it fills Robb with an unexpected confidence.

"All's well, kid," Theon says. "I'll be in the next room if you need me." And it's the first time in two months Robb sleeps through the night.

 

*******

 

The man is definitely dead now; soon he'll grow stiff – _rigor mortis_ , was it? – but then again, Robb already is. And they don't try to relieve that tension, they're going to make him beg for it, and he would've begged, surely, if it weren't for Theon's fingers clogging his mouth.

Jon has picked up his pace; his breath is haggard on Robb's neck, he latches his mouth to his shoulder. Whenever his brother takes him like that, on all fours, Robb feels as though he's trying to claim back something that he'd never had. If Jon hopes to find that missing piece, tug it out with sheer force, Robb is willing to let him, even when it's getting so rough he nearly loses his balance. His lips part with a slight pop, and Theon clicks his tongue.

"Jon, cool it," he says.

"Yeah," Jon pants, but his next shove throws Robb flat on his stomach, right between Theon's legs. He sees a layer of dust on the carpeted floor, stains of spattered blood. A framed photograph has fallen, its glass shattered: the man, his wife and two young sons. They look happy, truly they do, but Robb knows better. His parents' mansion is packed full of happy photos, isn't it, and he always straightens them when they hang askew, as though the very gesture might rearrange the past. Jon bears onto him, he whimpers, almost sobs, and Theon's hands are back in his hair.

"Open your mouth," he orders. "It ain't over yet."

When Theon slips his cock between his lips, Robb shuts his eyes tight, concentrates on the flicker of his tongue, the bob of his head. He's fully theirs now, and he sinks into that cherished impassivity, lets himself be guided by their hands.

"Look at him," Theon says. "Sucks so well, always does as he's told. So perfect. Don't you want to slap him sometimes?"

"Sometimes," Jon says.

"No wonder you're jealous. He's got it all, hasn't he?" Theon curls his fingers through Robb's hair. "He's gonna get the money, the mansion, the business. And you –"

"Don't want the fucking money," Jon snarls, and the way his hips move now, he doesn't even bother pulling out, like he tries to see just how deep he can go. "Fuck the company."

"What is it then?"

"Father," Jon says. "I want Father to look at me that way."

Robb's breath hitches in his chest, because Jon hasn't got a clue what he's asking for, but his brother's desperation is painful to hear. Robb searches for Jon's hand burrowing into his hip, tangles their fingers together.

"Yeah." That's all Theon says, ever says, but the wistfulness of his voice betrays him. Theon doesn't want Father; he could never be a Stark, and he's not as greedy as Jon. He'd settle for just _a_ father. So Robb sends his other hand to intertwine with Theon's fingers in his hair, and he's stretched like that, pressed down to the floor, roughly slammed back and forth between his brother and his best friend.

Jon's irregular thrusts tell him that he's close, and Robb yearns to touch himself, but they are grabbing his hands, and he considers rubbing himself on the carpet, anything to earn some relief, but they wouldn't like that. No more games, they said. So he moans around Theon's cock when Jon gives a final push, buried completely inside him.

Jon curses, voice gruff, and his hands join Theon's, pushing down on Robb's head. "Come on, Robb," Theon urges. "Such a dirty slag, you can do better than that." And Robb tries, allows their hands to hold him down as he opens up, huffs through his nose, until he's squashed against Theon's shirt, until he's rewarded with a shudder, a groan, and bitter seed flowing down his throat.

"Please," he says as soon as he's able to talk. "Please."

But they're not done yet, they yank him upwards by his hair, drag him until he's facing the man's glassy eyes, the pallor of those heavy cheeks. It smells dreadful this close; the man must've shat and pissed himself after he bled his last.

"Look at the mess you've made," Theon scolds. "Psycho boy."

"Just had to use that knife," Jon says.

"He deserved it," Robb whispers, squirms in their grip, and he knows they'd let him, they always do, but the strain is worse now that he's physically able to alleviate it. "Please," he begs. "Need it. So much."

"Well," Theon deliberates. "He's been a good cocksucker. Hasn't he, Jon?"

"Good little slut."

"He deserves it too," Theon decides.

Jon nods gravely.

"Go on, kid," Theon says. "It's your special night."

Robb pants, awash with gratitude; he draws each of them in for a kiss before he wraps his blood-stained fingers over his cock. They keep their lips attached to his, his back secured against their chests, as he thrusts into his hands. When he comes, his seed is tainted red.


	2. Black Sheep Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon likes the satisfaction of a job well done. He also likes how no one is ever safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), without whom this story would've been dark and full of kids.

Theon likes the satisfaction of a job well done. In a mere ten minutes the flat is squeaky clean; he herds the boys into the bathroom, washes their faces and hair, checks them for blood stains, especially Robb, who really should be more cautious.

"Right, kid," he tells him. "You're good."

Robb smiles; he still looks dazed, and that's hardly surprising after what they've put him through. Theon has just come inside that kid's mouth, but he still feels a stir in his loins at the memory of those tight red lips, the tremor of Robb's sobs and whimpers over his cock. He passes his finger over Robb's cheek, bends to peck it, and Jon moves to cradle his brother closer. They're always careful to be gentle to Robb afterwards, so he knows, no matter what they say, how much they love him.

"All right?" Jon asks, nuzzles his nose into Robb's hair.

"I think so," Robb says.

"Will you make it through dinner?" Theon cups his chin and kisses him before he can answer; Jon's arms wrap around them both. And if there's a better feeling in the world, well, he can't imagine what it is. Surely there's nothing as complete or perfect as having these kids – _his kids_ – so close.

Robb leans his head back against his brother's shoulder. "I'm really sore," he confesses.

"Sorry," Jon mumbles, and how strange it is, he's all sweetness now, planting kisses on Robb's neck, his fingers trailing over Theon's lower back. When it's them who take him, he's as coy as a blushing virgin, giving so softly into their touch. But when he's on Robb, Jon turns an animal, growling and wild, and Theon can see in the glare of his eyes the council estate where he'd grown, the human jungle where he'd come from.

"No harm done," Theon answers for Robb, as he sometimes does. Jon was rougher than usual, true, but it must be the prospect of another Stark family dinner which had him so agitated. It seems Jon would never quite get used to them.

Robb nods. "I liked that," he quietly says. Theon presses them all together; he would've wanted nothing else than to stay this way, sated and weary, embraced through the night. But the man still lies in the corner, stares at them with his wide eyes, swims in the pool of his congealing blood. It's high time they left.

"Well then," Theon says. "Can't keep your father waiting."

He leads the boys out into the corridor, up to the roof, through an old supplies shaft which connects to the adjacent apartment complex. And that's another thing that Theon likes, how no one is ever safe. There was a time, or so he was told, when people could travel the streets, just leave their houses and walk. Now that it has all changed, they still try to fool themselves with their gated communities and security systems. The man must've thought himself clever, hiding inside his code-protected, guard-watched flat, but he never had a chance. There's always a way in: ventilation ducts, out-of-service lifts and emergency staircases. Always a way in, if you know what you're doing.

And one thing can be said about Theon Greyjoy: he knows what he's doing.

 

*******

 

The first rule of this job is _never get attached_.

Easy enough, Theon thinks, there are slim chances of him getting attached to this kid. He watches him through the windows of Mr. Stark's study. The boy sits with his sister in the inner courtyard; he stares at the tree leaves and the skies. The sister will grow to be a fine little tart, no doubt, but the kid is just what he is, a spoilt little brat needs watching.

"Here's the thing, Mr. Stark," he says. "I've done security jobs in the past, but nothing like this."

But the man leans back in his chair, dismissively waves his hand. "I'm quite aware of your… experience," he says. Lack thereof, he means. "I know your father well, Theon. He worked for us before his – fall." Theon tries not to flinch, looks back at the courtyard; there's a tablet in the kid's lap, he notices, but he doesn't read, his expression is empty. "Giving you this job is the least I can do for his last son."

Theon keeps his face still. "I appreciate it, sir," he says.

"To be frank, this is no more than glorified babysitting," Mr. Stark continues. "We don't expect more troubles, and there won't be any gun-toting involved. This is for my wife, anything to keep her from worrying."

Theon nods.

"As I've said, you're to stay with my son and watch him. Not very exciting, I'm sure, but prove yourself, and it could open doors for you." In the promise there is a layer of threat – _disappoint us and we can bury you_ – but that's how it usually is when dealing with this kind of people. Theon remembers it very well from his own father. Before his – fall. And working for the Starks would definitely look impressive on his résumé. He's eighteen and on his own, he hasn't got many options. This could be just the break he needs.

Mr. Stark rises from his chair, stands next to Theon, observes his apathetic son under the shade of grim afternoon clouds. "Another thing," he says.

"Yes, sir?"

"My son has been through a lot. These last months were… trying, to say the least." Mr. Stark furrows his brows. "We don't mention it. My son is, shall we say, quite unhinged at the moment. He needs to get back into his routine. Dwelling on the past would do him no good. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear, sir." Glorified babysitting to an unhinged spoilt rich kid, that's the least anyone could do for the last Greyjoy son. Yes, crystal clear, Theon thinks. Don't mention the past. Don't get attached.

In the following weeks, a few other things become clearer: the kid is quiet, very polite, almost unnervingly proper. His eyes drift as he deftly knots the tie of his school uniform, there's not one crease on his shirt. He is scared of the dark, he asks to leave a small light in his bedroom. He's terrified of confined spaces, he never shuts doors closed, and Theon has to enter any empty room and secure it before he agrees to walk in. His little posh school has its own guards, but he makes Theon walk him every morning to the classroom. The kid wets his bed, sometimes, and his cheeks flush bright red when he tries to hide the soiled sheets.

One evening, when Theon locks the windows and is about to bid him goodnight, the kid suddenly blurts out, as if using his last remaining courage: "Please stay. Until I'm asleep."

So Theon grabs a chair, pulls it next to the bed, watches as the boy draws the blanket to his neck. His eyes glow perfect blue under the dim light, and Theon finds himself staring.

"You think I'm pathetic," the kid bitterly murmurs. "You've probably never been scared in your life."

"I used to be scared," Theon softly says. "All the time." And he has no idea, absolutely no idea why he is telling the truth.

"Really?" The boy's eyes grow wider. "Of what?"

"Everything. My father. My brothers. Ghosts and demons. Burglars and murderers. Cockroaches."

The kid smiles. It's a first, and it feels good to make him smile. "How did you stop being afraid?" he asks.

"Grew up," Theon says. "Left the house. Got this." He pats his gun. "Things are much less scary when you can shoot them."

"Could you… teach me how to shoot?"

"Your parents wouldn't care much for that," Theon says.

"I won't tell them," he softly pleads, hands gripping the blanket. "They don't need to know. It'd be our secret."

"Bugger that, why not," Theon eventually says. "I'll see what I can do." And the gratitude in the kid's eyes – _Robb's eyes_ – is strangely satisfying.

 

*******

 

They cross the bridge over the dry river beds of the Thames, and when Theon parks the car by the Starks' driveway in Kensington, it's eight o'clock and the mansion is brimming with lights and noises. It's Mr. Stark himself who answers the door; he pulls Robb into a brief hug, shakes hands with Theon and Jon. "Come on in," he says. "We're still waiting for some guests."

The boys scuttle inside after their father like a pair of well-trained lapdogs, and Theon recalls a quote from one of Robb's old books. "I don't subscribe to the theory that we only become _truly adult_ when our parents die," the book said. "We never become _truly adult_." It's accurate for him, he thinks; his family's been dead to him for a long time, but he only ever feels _truly adult_ when he takes care of those kids. Robb and Jon, though, how they look up to their father, how they seek his attentions. They would never grow up as long as Ned Stark is alive.

Theon follows them, almost crashes into a maid carrying silverware to the dining room, swerves into the parlour and exchanges a nod with Mrs. Stark. It's one of life's subtle ironies that he had started his job as a means to calm her down, because she has never warmed up to him. The closer he'd grown to Robb, the less she seemed to tolerate him. A bad influence, she thinks. And maybe he is. Maybe they all are on each other.

He finds the boys sitting on the velvet sofa in the parlour next to Sansa. She wears a black evening dress, surely too short for her mother's liking, but just perfect in Theon's eyes. At sixteen Sansa is quite the looker; her eyes are the same shade of light blue as Robb's, but they seem to stare into space, a dreamy expression etched on her face.

"We hardly ever see you anymore," she tells Robb.

"I know, I'm sorry," he kisses her cheek. "Been swamped with schoolwork."

If Robb is still sore, he's making a good show of hiding it. Even Theon finds it difficult to believe that this properly dressed kid, his face so collected, just this afternoon slashed a man's throat deep to the bone, squatted and watched as the blood trickled to the floor. Then again, Robb's always been a fine actor, hasn't he? His little games. His little secrets.

"That's no excuse," Sansa says. "Sixth form is just as hard, you know."

"Sweet innocence," Robb laughs. "Right, mate?"

"Right," Jon solemnly agrees.

Jon's also got his act. It's a must, if he wants anyone to believe he's one of Robb's mates, one of his _school_ mates, no less. It took a while to get that crude accent out of his words, to teach him which knife cuts the fish and just what to do with the serviettes. But they all have their roles to play in the Stark family's show, and Theon leans in the corner and quickly reverts to his: the silent guard in the shadows. He doesn't mind, he's used to it. And he likes watching his kids from afar. They couldn't be more different, no one would suspect them of being related, let alone brothers. Yet there's something highly pleasing about their dissimilarities: Robb's lightness, his red curls and blue eyes, his pale skin and scattered freckles, next to Jon's darkness, his shaggy black hair and deep grey eyes, his almost constant frown. And he himself, Theon thinks, the glue that holds them together.

Arya bursts into the parlour from the entryway of the dining room, trailed by little Bran and Rickon. "You've brought him!" she tells Robb, face brightening, before she throws her arms around Jon. "So good to see you, Jon."

"He's here just for you, little sister," Robb says, smiling.

Jon flushes as he tentatively hugs the girl back. "Good to see you too," he says against her unruly dark hair pressing on his mouth.

"You should come every evening," she says. "Much less boring that way."

"Arya, don't be rude," Sansa says.

But then all sounds of conversation cease when Mr. Stark steps back into the parlour. Theon straightens against the wall, tries to look alert, and Arya moves to sit by the edge of the sofa. Mr. Stark is accompanied by a broad man, almost balding but for a thin fringe of black hair, with a neatly trimmed beard and hollowed cheeks like a bird of prey.

"May I introduce to you our very honoured guest for this evening," Mr. Stark tells his family, and Theon finds it hard to breathe, because he knows this man. Oh, he definitely does. "Chief Inspector Stannis Baratheon of the Scotland Yard."


	3. Like a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon can never get used to this act (and Robb doesn't make it any easier.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), without whom this awkward Stark family dinner would've been even more awkward.

Jon can almost delude himself. He's seated between Arya and Robb, facing Mr. Stark at the head of the table, and yes, he thinks, this is his family, true family: his little brothers and sisters, his own father. So what if they don't know. So what if they can never know.

It'll never feel natural, this act, even now that he can name all the main dishes in French, when he never places his elbows on the table. All it'd take is just one slip, one little error, and they'll all see where he'd come from. He tries to let the sound of conversation drown him, gazes at his brother, then at Theon seated next to Sansa. Robb attentively listens to their father and his guest, but Theon is quieter than usual, paler. Jon wonders whether Theon feels a stranger here as much as he does.

"Father's been meeting that inspector for a few days now," Arya tells him, her fork clicking on her plate. "I guess it was just a matter of time before he came to bore the rest of us."

Jon can't catch her every word in this clattering noise, but he likes the verve of her voice, her admiring eyes. If he were to tell any of them, he thinks, it'd be her; she already treats him as a brother. But Father – wouldn't he welcome him? Wouldn't he want to know his lost son? Wouldn't he ask Jon to join him in his study after dinner, just like Robb? Those are silly dreams, Jon knows, but he can't supress the bitter jealousy that rises whenever he looks at Robb's face, whenever he pounds into his brother hard enough to draw wails out of his pretty mouth.

Seemingly attuned to his thoughts, Robb leans into him, their shoulders brush together. He casually places his palm over Jon's knee, as if that was the most normal thing to do at a family dinner, and his lips are so close. Jon silently curses his brother, curses himself for responding so quickly to the lightest touch.

"Listen," Robb says, tilts his head to their left.

"Of course I can't divulge any more details," the copper tells Mr. and Mrs. Stark. "But as we've informed the press, we're dealing with at least five related homicides."

"All Lannister men?" their father asks. The table grows quieter. Arya stops her chatter, and even the little ones stare wide-eyed at the copper. Mrs. Stark seems uncomfortable; usually she never allows such morbid talk at the dinner table, but she doesn't argue with Mr. Stark. No one ever does.

"Not precisely, no," says Mr. Baratheon; his tone is droning, emotionless. "Two of them were indeed on Lannister payroll. The others, though. Nothing but low-rung criminals." And Jon swallows, he feels Robb's fingers running higher, trailing to his thigh, fluttering over the fabric of his suit trousers.

"But you still think the murders are related." Mr. Stark dabs his mouth with his serviette.

"Yes. Similar MO."

"That's _modus operandi_ ," Robb whispers. His hand settles between Jon's legs. "Method of operation."

"Enough," Jon hisses, but his brother only smiles.

"Was it the same murder weapon?" asks their father. He places the serviette on the table while the maid starts serving the main dish. Jon tries to recall. _Bœuf bourguignon_ : beef braised in red wine. Main course fork and knife: closest knife, largest fork, second from outside. Never take the oyster knife. He has to remember, he must.

The inspector nods at the maid, then shakes his head. "The weapons themselves were… varied."

"Please," Mrs. Stark starts, and the copper only then seems to realise the attention of the entire family is fixed on him. Arya's fork is hanging halfway to her mouth, and Robb's hand slowly circles Jon's erection even while his face is still, eyes on their father.

But Mr. Stark waves impatiently, and the inspector continues: "All crimes had at least two, perhaps three perpetrators. Apartments were broken in cleanly, victims surprised, no signs of struggle. That would imply someone with an extensive inside knowledge."

"An inner Lannister struggle, you suppose?" Mr. Stark asks, starting to cut his meat.

"Not necessarily. The brutality of the crimes – I apologise, Mr. Stark, but there are children present." He shrugs. "All I can say is that it indicates a personal vendetta."

"A vendetta." Robb unfastens the buttons of the trousers, and Jon slackens in his chair, squeezes the main course cutlery tightly; he can't, never could, find the will to make his brother stop. "How about that," Robb says as his fingers coil around Jon's cock.

 

*******

 

Fear. That's what he wakes up to, what cradles him as he goes to sleep. Even his dreams offer no escape: he's running over rooftops, climbing up endless staircases, he is chased. Jon is thirteen, and fear is his most trusted companion.

He wishes he was taller, stronger, able to defend himself, but he is cursed with his small frame from years of malnutrition. He keeps his switchblade close in his palm, but when shit hits the fan, as it often does, the best he can hope for is run, and fast. And Jon _is_ fast, he's quick to disappear, and that's what keeps him alive.

He sits on the footbridge's railing, his notebook over his knees, pencil in hand. He hardly ever attends school anymore, there's no point in that; he once thought he could get out of here by being good enough, smart enough, but he knows better now. There's no way out, not for the likes of him, and so he sits and draws the brutal buildings of the estate, the grey clouds overhead, the children playing between the burnt-out cars.

"Oi," says the bloke standing next to him. His hands are shivering, he's in need of getting a hit and things will get ugly if he doesn't, Jon knows. "You got it?"

"Ten quid," Jon says.

"I'm good for it, mate." His cheeks are sunken, eyes yellow, and he tries a smile, flashes broken, rotten teeth. "Totally good for it."

"Ten quid," Jon repeats; his fingers tighten around his switchblade.

It's always a tense moment when he's not sure what the crackheads would do. He's seen it all before, seen a man bite a kid's ear off, just because he didn't have the money to pay. But Jon keeps his cool, smudges another line into the paper, and tries to pretend the fear isn't there.

And the bloke gives in; he rummages in his pocket, slips a crumpled bill into Jon's hand. "Good for it, told you," he mumbles.

"Sure." Jon unfolds the bill. It looks legit and he searches for the other kid, sitting on top of the car shells under the walkway, nods at him. "Over there," he tells the man.

"But hey, I paid –"

"I don't hold, mate," Jon says. "Over there, I said." He's thankful when the man obliges, limps towards the stairs on his shaky legs. And he's more thankful that he's never asked to handle the goods, that he only takes the money, and if the police arrives, well, having money isn't an offence yet, is it. He wonders how come the coppers are always there at the scent of drugs, but never when someone gets shanked.

At nightfall he is still alive, the best he can ever hope for, and he gets some food, some pocket change. It's a long climb to the sixteenth floor; he's alert to any noise, takes the stairs two by two, but his legs are used to it by now. Even when the lift works, and it seldom does, Jon doesn't enter it. The thought of that barred cell, no way out, nowhere to hide, well, it's worse than any nightmare.

"Mum?" he asks as he opens the door, and he doesn't have to look for her, she's sprawled on the mattress, arms outstretched. She doesn't respond when he nudges her, just softly sighs. She's in a better place now, Jon thinks, she doesn't feel the fear, and that can only mean one thing. The cheque has arrived today.

Jon doesn't know who sends the money. He has his suspicions, but he doesn't know for sure. And whoever they are, he wishes they would stop it, because the money serves for nothing, disappears within an hour through the holes in his mum's arms. Maybe, Jon thinks, if she didn't have that insurance, that safe knowledge of an imminent escape, she could be a mother, a true mother. But he knows she never was, never will be.

So he turns on the telly, opens his notebook, starts to sketch her slack mouth, the foam running down her lips.

Another day passes, but the fear is still there.

 

*******

 

By midnight Jon stares out of Robb's old bedroom window into the courtyard; lanterns illuminate the cobbled footpaths, the full moon shines above. He would've preferred to return to their own flat, but Mr. Stark claims it's unsafe to drive so late at night, says they should stay here, and no one ever argues with Mr. Stark.

Theon takes his shoes off with a sigh, just as Robb stumbles through the door, his cheeks reddened, his eyes bright; he holds a bottle in his hand.

"2014 Château Latour Grand Cru," Robb announces, tipping the bottle into his mouth before he drops on the bed. "Not that you laymen can tell the difference."

Theon rolls his eyes, since Robb often turns quite insufferable when he's drunk, but Jon still asks: "Wouldn't Father notice?"

"Doubt it." Robb takes another sip. "Uncle Edmure steals his wines all the time."

They silently pass the bottle between them, and Jon tries hard not to think: of how he'll never feel at ease in this mansion, how he'd almost used the coffee spoon for the pudding because his brother's hand was under his trousers, how hard and frustrated he is, and how Robb joined their father after dinner, and he's now glowing and cocky as Jon never will be. He shuts his eyes, drinks, does not think.

"So much talk." Theon's voice snaps him out of his stupor; he sees his brother curled by the side of the bed, mouth agape, snoring softly. "But at least we laymen can handle our drink."

Jon allows himself a little grin, but he's far from amused. He's afraid Theon will start talking, tell him all those little lies, as if they both don't know Robb travels his own path, has his own world to which they would never belong. But Theon just messes his hair, then pushes on his shoulder until Jon gives in, leans into the mattress, parallel to his sleeping brother. Theon settles on top of him, the warmth of his body covering him like the softest blanket.

"Hey," he whispers, pats Jon's cheek. "When I first met you." He kisses his chin, down to his neck. "You were so dirty, always wearing that yellow jumper. You remember? Had a tear under the left sleeve." Jon remembers, and how ashamed he felt next to his brother in his neat school uniform. "I looked at you, and you know what I was thinking?" Theon's mouth trails down, he starts undoing Jon's shirt, button by button, his breath hot on his flesh. "How unfair it all is." His tongue slides down Jon's chest, leaves a wet path to his navel. "Two boys. Same age. Same father." He sucks into his skin, just by his hipbones, and Jon shudders, grabs the sheets. "Such a difference."

A guard crosses the courtyard, they can hear his footsteps on the gravel, and Theon pulls on Jon's trousers, releases his cock. He's so stiff it's almost agonising: first Robb's teasing hand at dinner, now these tender kisses. And his mind is blissfully vacant, he really can't think anymore; he lets himself moan, surrenders to that touch.

"But you know what?" Theon tells him, nestles his head on his thighs. "It doesn't have to matter. You are no longer that kid." He spreads Jon's legs apart, rests his hands on his waist. "No need to cling to the past." His tongue circles between words and skin. "You've got us now."

"Got you," Jon mumbles, his head afloat; he presses his cheek to Robb's, feels his drool, smells his Grand Cru wine.

"We'll always take care of you, Jon," Theon promises before he takes him into his mouth, and then it's just Theon's lips, Theon's tongue, his warmth swallowing him whole. Jon finally finds his home.


	4. Off the Beaten Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robb's revenge is going to be so sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), whose wonderful beta sent me into a two-hour research about the crucial differences between carousels and merry-go-rounds.

It's Sunday morning, and they stalk the man to Covent Garden. The wind is crisp and cold over the cobbled square; Robb winds the scarf tighter around his neck, but he still feels the sweat trickling down his brow. He's always nervous before they make a kill.

The man stops at an ice-cream parlour, buys two cones for the children: a beady-eyed, stick-thin girl of about ten, a plump, sullen boy who can't be older than five. And Robb thinks how different it'd be out here in the open, where a band plays loud music, where babies in buggies hold their animal-shaped balloons, where the man and his kids join a circle of spectators to watch a performer juggling flaming balls.

"Stay close," Theon tells them as they lean against the arcade's wall, a few metres away. Robb reaches for Jon's hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. Just the touch of his brother's skin is enough to fill him with courage.

"Now what?" he asks.

"Now we wait," Theon says.

Robb finds it difficult to stand still. It's the first time they are after one of the main men: not just a low-rung criminal – as Chief Inspector Baratheon had so deftly put it – but a manager in a subsidiary of Lannister Corporation. And if this Mr. Kettleblack turns out to be the man who did the deed, he can certainly tell them who gave the order. The thought itself is enough to make Robb's head swirl; his fingertips are shaking against Jon's hand.

"You think that copper knows something?" Jon asks. His eyes are fixed on the juggler, and it's always strange to think that up until recently, his brother had no idea that such a world even existed, that people laughed and danced inside their gated shopping malls – UK's very own _Masque of the Red Death_. And if the allegory holds true, then what does it make them, he wonders.

"Doesn't know shit," Theon says, but Robb recognises the twitch of his lips, remembers how Theon was strangely silent last night, how his eyes followed Inspector Baratheon's every gesture.

"Are you certain?" he asks.

"You worry too much, kids," Theon says, then his voice drops. "You know what I'm going to do to you once we're finished here?" He doesn't wait for an answer, never does; he knows how badly they always want to hear. "You'll be filthy, won't you, boys. All that blood. I'll get you in the bath, wash you good, both of you. And when you're all wet and clean, gonna fuck you. One after the other. What do you say, who should I fuck first?" He smiles. "Jon, right? You always want to go first."

Jon doesn't tear his eyes from the juggler and the family, but his face tints deep red.

"How should I fuck your brother, Robb?" Theon softly asks.

Robb squeezes Jon's hand again. "On his back," he says. "He likes to be kissed." And hell if Jon doesn't look pretty like that, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, but he looks even prettier in Robb's mind, lying naked on their bed, water drops gathering down the thin strip of soft hair down his navel, legs spread, shivering under Theon's weight, his full red lips gently kissed as he moans.

Theon nods. "On your back, Jon," he whispers. "Gonna fuck your cute ass nice and slow. I'll take my time with you." Jon still doesn't look at him, but his breath is strained and it's enough to make Robb forget his anxiety, make his cock jolt. He gets even harder when Theon turns his attention to him. "And what about him, Jon? He's gonna want it real bad after watching you come. How should I fuck him?"

Jon huffs, he's about to answer, but then the juggler throws his flaming balls up into the air; the plump boy tries to clap, but the ice cream cone in his hand thumps into the man's back. The horror in the child's eyes is as clear as the brown stains on his father's suit.

"Daddy," the girl says. "Look what Thomas did."

The child wails – "it wasn't me, honest" – while his father turns. He pulls on the hem of his jacket; the slap he lands on his son's cheek rings unbearably loud in Robb's ears.

"Little bugger," the man curses. "Better shut up if you don't fancy another one." But the boy's lips wobble before he bursts out crying, and a second slap hits him just as hard.

"He did that on purpose," the girl says.

"Enough, and keep watch on your brother, or you'll get a smack too," the man tells her. The girl recoils, her face darkens. "Where's the bloody toilet," he mutters, pushes into the thick crowd towards the arcade.

"This one's mine," Theon says, eyes narrowed, and they can still hear the child's choked sobs as they start to follow the man.

 

*******

Robb spends the week of his sixteenth birthday with his nose buried in his father's tax reports. He thought he'd be bored by his summer job, but the numbers somehow calm his nerves; they are abstract, immaterial, they pose no threat. And in truth he should be ashamed, because secretly he's looking for any discrepancies, any irregularities. After all, Al Capone went down for tax fraud, didn't he, and this might be the loophole that Robb seeks.

Only the books are immaculate, every last pound paid, and Theon's fingers drumming on the desk start to drive him mad. Theon blends well enough into the shadows while the others are present, but when it's just the two of them, he lets his boredom – even worse, his _ennui_ – show.

"You could help me here," Robb finally suggests.

Theon rolls his chair back and forth around the office. "Not in my job description, kid," he says. And after a while: "Come on. Enough work for one day."

"I'm not done yet," Robb murmurs.

Theon pulls himself back behind the desk until he comes to rest just next to Robb, their knees touching. And Robb knows what usually follows when he gets this close. All those stories, confusing stories, about girls, about boys, and how Theon had never cared which one it was. And all the things he does with them, filthy things Robb would never admit to yearning to hear.

"Hey," Theon says. "You should get out more. Meet some friends. Say, when was the last time you met your friends?"

Robb hides his head deep in the computer screen's glare. So it's going to be one of _those_ talks instead, and Robb would prefer the filth which makes his belly flutter. Because by now Theon surely realises that he hasn't got any friends. He's got acquaintances, school mates, that's about it, like a carousel of replaceable faces, and sometimes he can't even remember their names.

"I'd rather stay here with you," Robb says.

"Yeah," Theon says. "But you need _friends_."

And it's true, isn't it, Theon's nothing but his bodyguard, his father's employee, but the words still cut into his skin. "Aren't you my friend?" he asks.

"No, shit, no." Theon sighs. "That's not what I meant."

"Sure sounded like it."

"No, listen." Theon cups his cheeks and Robb retreats, his chair pressing against the wall. "You know this is more than a job for me."

"All right." Robb attempts to ignore the warmth of fingers on his skin, the bitter taste in his mouth. "I bet Father could give you a more interesting job. I'm not at risk any longer, am I. No need for you to stay."

"I'll stay for as long as you need me," Theon quietly says, and for a long moment they look at each other, the drone of the air conditioner the only sound in the office. Theon's fingers move behind his ears; Robb averts his eyes back to the screen, says the first thing that comes to his mind.

"Wylla Snow, is she an employee?"

Theon lets his hands drop. "Don't know the name. Why?"

"There are cheques to her. Every month. But she's not on company payroll."

Theon whistles. "Daddy's got a mistress."

"He hasn't." Robb feels silly to argue this point, because for all of his father's faults, he still values family above all. "Not in Hackney, he hasn't."

"Mm." Theon bends closer, studies the chequebook. "Yeah, I would've expected him to find his bird a nicer flat."

"Can you find out who she is?"

"No way, kid." Theon leans back, rolls his chair away from the desk. "Not gonna shove my nose into your father's business."

"Please," Robb says. "Just look into it. You won't get into any trouble, I swear."

And it doesn't take much pleading, perhaps Theon still feels guilty, because before long he says, just like he does whenever he gives in to Robb's demands: "Bugger that. I'll see what I can do."

At dinner Robb nips more wine glasses than allowed when his parents don't look, and he feels faint and confused while Theon settles into their nightly routine, actions carved in stone though their meaning is long lost: locks the windows, draws the curtains, sits on the chair as Robb tumbles into bed.

"All's well, kid," Theon says. "I'll be in the next room if you need me."

"No," Robb slurs; the wine gives him the courage.  "You'll be here. In my bed."

Theon blinks, and this doesn't take any pleading at all. He sheds his trousers and shirt, lifts the blanket and slinks inside the bed. Robb closes his eyes as he lays his head on his shoulder. He thinks it's going to be a long while until he doesn't need Theon anymore.

 

*******

 

It's face-off time inside the empty lavatory. Theon tackles the security camera; that gives them one minute before the feed is back online, he says. Robb no longer minds his shaky fingers or the sweat down his brow; he just feels his arousal at Theon's promises, his comfort at Jon's closeness. And the man's presence inside the stall.

The door opens; Mr. Kettleblack steps out, hands and suit still wet, and Theon moves swiftly to block his way.

"Thomas is crying," he tells him.

The man's surprised gaze flits between the three of them, as though trying to assess how much of a threat they are. Well, they don't look menacing, do they, in their designer jeans and colourful plaid scarves. Robb smiles encouragingly at him, lets himself softly ease into this game of revenge served cold as ice.

"Well." The man keeps his poise. "I'd better get back then."

"Better not," Theon says. "Thomas is crying because of you."

With that he pushes against the man, draws his pistol on his stomach. Theon is always so quick – _now you see it, now you don't_ – that Robb can't help but be impressed. They work well together, their actions wordlessly harmonised, but it's Theon who guides them. It's in Theon that they always place their trust.

"Listen, mate," the man starts. "I've got money –"

"Not one word," Theon warns him. "If you fancy seeing your kids again." The man still stays calm, as if he's used to being held at gunpoint, and for all they know, perhaps he is. He silently obeys them, even as they make him step back inside the stall, latch the door behind them, force him down on the toilet seat.

"Open your mouth," Theon says, keeping his aim steady, and Jon loosens his scarf, wraps it tightly around the man's face, between his meaty lips, his yellowing teeth. Robb squats by the gagged man and places his hands on his heavy knees.

"Hey," he says. "Look at me."

The man's light eyes are set on him, and Robb is certain now. He remembers. He wishes – wishes so hard – that he didn't.

"Do you know who I am?" he quietly asks; the man just stares, his breath heavy under the wool of the scarf. "Five years ago. You didn't have money, weren't such a big manager yet. Do you recall?" He caresses the man's knees. "You shot down my driver, right in the head. His brains spattered all over me. I was hiding under the car seat. You pulled me outside by the hair. Kicked me, just for good measure, I guess."

Jon kneels next to Robb, wraps his arm around his waist, tenderly kisses his hair, and his brother's touch helps draw the memories, one hidden scene after the other. "You cuffed me. Hands behind my back. Your friend injected me with that needle. It made the world go black."

Jon presses his cheek to Robb's, rubs them softly together; Theon's left hand settles on his hair. "And I looked at you. It was you," Robb continues. He raises his hand and pokes his finger right into the man's brow. "Those eyes. That was the last thing I saw," he says. "Do you remember me now?"

The man mumbles under his gag, his eyes running wild, and no, he doesn't keep his cool, doesn't think his money is going to save him anymore. He knows what's coming. He might not have lived in fear for five years, but that's exactly how he is going to die.


	5. Messenger Bird's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon thirsts for real blood, for real knives, for real cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update might take a while longer due to stuff & things. Sorry!
> 
> So many thanks to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) for a lovely beta. May your sheets forever be starched and ironed <3

There are no atheists in foxholes, the old saying goes, and it's true, men would cling to any hope to avoid accepting their fate. Mr. Kettleblack is no different. "I'm going to take your gag off," Theon tells him. "Will you behave?" And the man eagerly nods, almost as if he believes they're going to let him walk out of here alive.

Theon hands Jon his pistol. "On his head," he tells him. The kids rise up from their knees, Jon's one arm wound securely over Robb's chest, his chin laid on his shoulder. His other arm points straight at the man's temple, pistol pressing into his skin. The boy has come a long way, Theon thinks; he feels a rush of pride at Jon's steady hold of the weapon, the cold calculation in his eyes. "That's it, relax," he kindly says as he releases the ties of the scarf. "You're good."

"We just want to ask you some questions," Robb adds, sinking closer into his brother's embrace.

"We're not after you," Theon continues. "You only did what you were told to."

The man wheezes, his nostrils flare, and he takes such a sharp breath as though he's been drowning. But that's fear, isn't it, runs deeper than any ocean. "Just followed orders," he whimpers.

"We understand," Theon says. "Whose orders?"

Mr. Kettleblack slopes back against the toilet seat, his arms crossed, bracing himself. His gaze drops to the shiny marble floor of the stall.

"Fine, be this way." Theon shrugs. "Give me the knife, kid."

Robb passes him the switchblade from the safety of his back pocket, where the weapon stays hidden from most common metal detectors. It's all done swiftly, but Jon still grunts as he pulls his brother back against him, as if the loss of contact was too much for them to bear. He reaches his lips to Robb's neck; his aim stays true even as he drags his tongue up his skin and softly bites on his earlobe.

Theon draws the blade and checks its sharp edge against his thumb. He clicks his tongue in approval. "Is this how you want to play?" he asks the man.

"N-no." The man pales. "Please."

"Then answer us," Theon tells him. "And we'll let you leave."

Mr. Kettleblack's eyes remain cast down, and Theon imitates the boys, passes his blade slowly on the man's neck and lets it travel over his exposed skin. He can hear Robb's low moan in the background, can almost feel the tautness of Jon's arm pointing the pistol. The thrill of promised carnage makes him lightheaded; revenge is not a dish, he thinks, it's an aphrodisiac.

"All right, all right," the man utters. "We never meant to hurt anyone, honest. It was just – orders. Okay? The driver, he drew on us, we had to. We never hurt the lad, he's fine."

Well, this is a lie, Robb's far from fine, so severely scarred he might never be fine again, but Theon still nods calmingly. "It's all good," he says. "But who gave you the orders?"

"I don't know." The man's lips quiver; he watches the blade still stroking his skin. "Don't know who placed the hit. I just – there's a man, all right? He's like – a businessman. For those things. He – knows people. Knows people who can get jobs done for other people." A faint wail leaves his mouth. "I needed the money. The man said – it could sort us out."

"It sure did," Theon agrees. "Who's that man?"

"Nobody knows his real name," Mr. Kettleblack mumbles. "Has a shop in Camden Town. Deals with antiques, coins. They call him Littlefinger. That's all I know, I swear."

"Anything else?" Theon asks. "Think very, very hard."

"I swear, that's all. Please."

"All right," Theon says. "You did well. Been extremely helpful. We won't forget that." The man nearly sighs with relief. "Now listen carefully. I need you to open your mouth again. I'll put the scarf back on. Can't have you screaming bloody murder here. You'll count to a hundred before you leave. Clear?"

The man's voice is shaky. "Clear."

He obediently opens his mouth, and he doesn't realise – before it's too late – that it's not Theon's hand holding the scarf. It's his other hand, and his switchblade driving through the man's tongue. It's always such an intense pleasure to see how easily flesh gives into steel, how muscle separates under a firm touch. Mr. Kettleblack's eyes roll upwards; the shock must have subdued the pain, but his fingers grasp at his mouth, blood overflowing down his chin. He cries out a silent gurgle.

"Can't have you screaming bloody murder," Theon says.

 

*******

 

Rays of dawn sneak through the curtains, but morning always comes late at this time of year, and soon it'd be time to wake up the kid. Theon doesn't want to. He'd rather steal a few more moments of precious agony, looking at the limp body nestled on his chest, the coppery shine of those curls against his chin.

It's been a week since Robb asked him into his bed, but that's all he does, truly: snuggles nearer, lays his head on his shoulder. Sometimes he burrows his nose into Theon's neck and gives the softest sigh before his eyes start to flutter to his secret dreams. It's sweet, and it's an exhilarating feeling of power to completely win his trust, and it's pure torture, because Theon is so aroused, so hard, and the kid just sleeps.

It's not like he hasn't tried implying. He sits Robb down and tells him those fancy tales; only few are true, but all are dirty as hell. Robb drinks his words like wine, breath quick and eyes big, but he never says a word. And some time later he excuses himself to the toilet; Theon stands guard by the door and can only imagine what Robb must do there behind closed doors. He wonders how Robb looks like when he touches himself. Does he bite on his lips when his hands wrap around his cock? Does he bend his head back on the wall? Does his mouth hang open, eyelids scrunched shut, when he spurts his come? Does he feel ashamed afterwards? If so, Theon wants to tell him that he shouldn't, that he must look beautiful like that.

So Theon cradles the kid and imagines: that he presses his lips to Robb's brow, down his cheeks, licks circles over his neck, sucks bruises that'll mark him for days. Their mouths are on each other, and he swallows his moans, wrecks him with tongue and fingers until Robb can't understand why he's waited so long.

He gets harder, his patience wears thin, and he imagines worse things: he grabs Robb's waist with both hands, flips the kid on his stomach, pulls down on his stupid pyjama trousers. He clutches his hands together above his head, pins him down to the mattress, but it's only when he shoves his fingers into his ass that the kid wakes up with a wail. He tosses and jerks, but Theon spreads his legs apart, he's so fucking tight when he pushes his cock inside him, slowly, mercilessly. "Shut up and take it," Theon hisses against his ear. "You fucking tease." He rams into Robb earnestly now; each thrust buries his cock to the hilt. "You invite a man into your bed. What did you think was gonna happen?" Robb's tears soak into the starched, ironed sheets of his bed –

And now it's Theon who feels guilty, but it's nothing but a slide of dirty images, is it, dark thoughts at dawn. He would never do that, not even the lightest kiss, not without Robb's request. He knows, it's evident now: he's all that this kid has, and the responsibility is almost overwhelming. He must never betray his trust.

The room grows lighter, sunlight warms the pillow. Robb's eyes slowly open; he looks at Theon, rubs his nose under his chin. "Thank you," he whispers. He still hasn't got a clue.

At the office time seems to stretch on forever, and by early afternoon even Robb is eager to finally leave. His hands are atremble, and Theon can't understand what he hopes to achieve with this little detective play, but he indulges the kid, as he always does. They exit through the back door; Theon would rather avoid bumping into anyone. If only Mr. Stark knew that he was taking his son eastwards to Hackney, that he was driving him where the tall cement towers of the estates loom overhead like sentinels of a lost civilisation.

He parks the car under the main walkway, and his hand is quick on his pistol; Robb stays close behind him. "Keep watch," Theon tells the boys playing on the driveway. "One quid each when we return." They scatter around the vehicle, muddy faces serious, and he can only hope it'd be enough to keep the car safe from harm.

"Up the stairs," he says to Robb as they enter the tower's lobby, sickly fluorescent light flickering above. "Never take a lift in these places."

The kid looks incredulous. "It's the sixteenth floor."

"Well then," Theon says, smiling. "Race you to the top?"

 

*******

 

Robb's eyes are bright with fascination, like the child he should've had the chance to be all those years ago. Jon's hand trails down his chest, rests at the front of his jeans, fingers drawing patterns over his cock. Theon shakes his head. "No fucking, boys," he orders. He knows how desperately they crave to touch each other, to release their arousal along with the man's life, but he has other plans for them. "You're mine tonight."

Jon groans, his hand still caresses between his brother's legs, and Theon can never stand his look of disappointment, so he reluctantly allows: "You can prepare him for me."

He kneels next to the man, puts a gloved hand on his trembling legs, listens to his muted pleas. It's a lovely thing to watch your enemies wilt. Each droplet of blood, each hopeless spasm, is recompense for what was done to the kid, what was done to Theon himself. And the man must know that, because he doesn't struggle anymore, just stares in horror while Theon cuffs his head.

"Don't faint on us," he cautions him. "We've still got a lot to do. What do you think, boys," he asks, and Jon's already undone Robb's jeans, his hand running hungrily on his legs, to his ass. "What is man's greatest fear?"

"Death." That's Jon: simple, straightforward, no nonsense.

"Death," Theon says. "Scary, sure, but too abstract." His blade travels down the man's suit, cutting through fabric and skin. "Nobody knows what happens when we die. We make things up. Reincarnation." A vertical slash; the man jolts. "Eternal rest." Horizontal now. Mr. Kettleblack attempts to recoil, but his movements are languid, and Jon's pistol digs into his temple. "Heaven."

"He won't go to heaven," Robb says; he jerks a little when his brother's fingers slip under the elastic of his pants.

"Nah, probably not," Theon agrees. "Anyone up for a second guess?"

"Man's most primal fear," Robb starts, lets out one of his sweet moans, which means Jon's fingers are slowly advancing between his ass cheeks. "Castration anxiety. Literal and metaphorical. If you subscribe to Freud, that is."

Theon nods. Castration, he likes the sound of that. "You hear that, Mr. Kettleblack?" he asks. "Tell us more, kid."

"Well, it ties in with the Oedipus complex," Robb explains, his slow words punctuated by pants. "The boy wishes to have his mother all for himself, and he sees his father as the only obstacle standing in his way." He shudders, arms slack at his sides, his hips slightly pushed forward as his brother slides his fingers inside him.

"He wants to fuck his mum?" Theon asks, his blade patting the man's crotch.

"He feels desire, yes." Robb whimpers; Jon's eyes are gravely serious behind his back, his knuckles picking up speed. "The father becomes a competitor for the mother's love. And the child begins to fear him."

"He thinks Daddy's gonna cut off his dick?" The man's trousers tear easily at the blade's stroke, and now he struggles, tosses and turns, he understands, and Theon yanks on his hair, knocks his head back against the toilet seat. The man slumps down; his eyes grow dazed with the force of the impact.

"Well. He knows his father is bigger. Stronger." Robb leans back, spreads his legs to allow Jon farther inside. "He can use his power to foil the boy's plans of possessing his mother. A pre-emptive strike, if you will."

"Such as?"

"Taking away the source of the conflict. The boy's penis."

"Reasonable enough," Theon says. "Hit the problem at its root, right?" He grabs the man's cock, and perhaps a switchblade isn't the most appropriate tool, he thinks, it takes three hard strikes to cut through his thick meat, and his scream sounds like the scratch of chalk on blackboard, like footsteps on fresh snow.

"This universal fear of losing one’s penis is called castration anxiety," Robb concludes. His eyelashes are heavy on his shutting eyes, his mouth loose, teeth down over his lips. Now that there's no need to point the pistol anymore, Jon roughly turns him against the wall; he pushes Robb's head down to watch the blood slowly gathering on the floor.

"God," Theon sighs, wiping his blade clean on the man's suit. "Don't you just love it when he talks like that?"


	6. My Sad Captains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Robb play as brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to my perfect beta [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), to whom I dedicate the Game of Brothers, where even if you lose, you still win.
> 
> Also thanks to lovely [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for building up my confidence <3

The bath is warm, but his brother's skin feels even hotter. His wet hair dangles over Jon's shoulders, his tablet propped on his knees. Jon's pencil skids over his sketchpad as Robb silently reads; Theon dips lower into the water, legs wrapped around Jon, blowing smoke rings to the ceiling. Old vinyl playing on the turntable, water running on foam: if there was a heaven, Jon thinks, that's exactly how it'd sound.

Out of all of those new things Jon's had to adapt to, the bath must be his favourite. Back home it was always one-minute showers, the water icy cold, and in winter he'd go for weeks without a wash. Better dirty than sick, he thought. Jon wonders what it's like to take hot water for granted.

Theon reaches for the ashtray, stubs out the fag, and his fingers are slick with soap when they start to knead Jon's shoulders. He lathers his skin, massages circles on his back, and Jon can't recall if his mother had ever washed him; she must've when he was a baby, but in all of his childhood memories, he's on his own. _This_ , though. This is how it should have been: gentle touch, sway of loving hands cleaning the shampoo out of his hair.

Theon kisses Jon's neck before he moves to take care of his brother. What he whispers to him, Jon can't hear; he just sees Theon's lips moving against his ear, Robb's little smile. They've got their half-hushed talks of private history, before Jon came along, back when Robb was a wreck: daily panic attacks, waking up screaming at night. It would've been so easy to feel excluded by their shared past, but they never allow that to happen. Robb's hand sneaks to intertwine with Jon's under the cover of bubbles, and he wonders if his brother feels calmer now, with one more name crossed out. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough, he knows; those were just the hands when it’s the head Robb wants, and Jon wishes he could hug him, promise him that they’ll kill them all.

When the bath slowly grows colder, Theon takes them out, wraps heated towels around their bodies. He pats them dry, one after the other, before he leads them by the hand to the bedroom, sits on the armchair, his legs spread.

"Kneel," he tells them.

They both drop to their knees; Robb lays his head over Theon's thigh, brushes his nose on the still wet skin, but his eyes, blue and hazy with want, are still locked on Jon. Theon strokes their chins, curves his fingers around their necks as he guides them to his cock.

"Suck," he orders and shuts his eyes.

Robb throws Jon one last look before he plants an endearingly soft kiss on the tip of Theon's cock. He licks down his shaft, gently nibbling at the skin. His brother's lips look so puffy when they purse around the head, his cheeks sucked in. Robb takes him deep, until he's out of breath, because Robb has to do perfectly, doesn't he, and Jon slightly nudges him so he can rub his tongue down Theon's erection to his balls, because he has to do better than Robb. And he imagines how Theon must see them, two boys hungrily competing for a taste of his cock. He enjoys Theon's fingers caressing his hair, his delighted moans, but he likes even better the look of devotion on his brother's face when they join their lips, water and saliva dripping down their mouths.

Theon shifts in his seat then; he pulls Robb's head to rest back against his thigh as he draws Jon nearer. "You made me so proud today," he softly says, looking him in the eye. "My little boy has learnt a lot." And Jon can feel his cheeks burning, bliss surging inside him. "Just you now,” Theon says. “Make me come."

"Didn't you say –" Robb mumbles.

But Theon shakes his head. "You boys want to be with each other tonight." Robb makes a small sound of protest, but Theon silences him, tucking a sodden curl behind his ear. "I practically raised you, kid, didn't I?" he says. "I should know."

And he's right, maybe that's what Jon really wants, what he wanted ever since he had his fingers inside his brother as the man painted the floor red, since he cradled Robb in his arms on the car ride back home. Theon's cock pulses on his lips, filling him down to his throat; Robb strokes his back, and Jon is confined between their bodies: his warm shell, his salvation.

"Don't swallow," Theon instructs him just before he shudders, giving the slightest push into Jon’s mouth. "Kiss your brother." Robb leans into his lips, and true, they were denied their private history, but they might just as well invent it, and the bitter seed lingering on his tongue becomes the sweetest gift that brothers can share.

 

*******

 

Jon hears them before he sees them; their voices carry into the staircase. His first urge is to sneak down a floor and hide in the maze of dark corridors. Dealers, he thinks. Looking for his mum. Lately she's crumbled apart, barely responsive; one evening the television was gone and she ripped the foam off the mattress, looking for his money stash. He keeps the bills hidden in his socks, stays awake at night and listens to her raspy breath. He doesn't know what he hopes for anymore.

"Maybe she's not home," says one of them.

They're just two, and their accents are off. They sure as fuck aren't coppers, that's the bright side. The lad who spoke isn't much older than Jon; he looks weirdly familiar, but it's absurd, such a proper face doesn't belong here in the estate. His dark red hair is clean and combed back, and his clothes flaunt a casual luxury Jon's never seen before. The other bloke is older, taller, carries a weapon, and that's all Jon really needs to know. Two strangers. Armed and standing at his door. What if she answers? What if they break in? He tucks the fear away, lays fingers over his blade, and steps from the staircase.

"Looking for something?" he asks, still keeping his distance. He manages his tough voice, it stays even, that's good. He must keep calm.

The tall bloke moves so briskly Jon inadvertently starts back, but the boy puts a hand on his wrist, and their entire relationship is clarified by this gesture: the young lad calls the tune here, he's the one to talk to, and the tall guy, he's – what, his guard? Must be.

"Yeah," the boy says. "We're looking for Wylla Snow."

Jon stiffens. He's learnt to survive by staying put, by reading the situation right, but he's got no idea how to even react to that – why would a little rich boy come here looking for his mum? "Well, she's not here," he says, though of course she is, bloodshot eyes staring at cracks in the ceiling, clothes soiled with vomit, where else would she go.

"Do you know her?" the boy asks.

Might as well find out what they want before they take the door down. "I'm her son," he says.

The lad shoots his guard a questioning look. The guy shrugs, the henchman's universal sign language for _do whatever the fuck you want_. And the boy does, he slowly draws closer, as though approaching a hurt stray cat, his eyes such a candid blue that Jon can't find it within him to feel scared.

"We just wanted to ask her something is all," he says. "My father sends her cash cheques, but she's not working for us. Just wanted to know…" He tilts his head back to the guard, who shrugs again. "What's that all about?"

"Your father sends them?" Jon tries to think fast. "Always thought it was my father –"

The tall guy mutters, “Well, shit.”

"Who's your father?" Jon asks in the silence that follows.

The boy still gawps, teeth chewing his lips. "Eddard Stark," he finally says, and at Jon's blank look, he adds: "Of Stark Industries?"

And now Jon knows why the lad looks so familiar. It must've been, what, two or three years ago? He'd seen it all on the telly, little heir, son of a multimillionaire, such a brutal carjacking, that atrocious way the kidnappers had kept him. Jon's mum devotedly watched the news, it was during her brief religious phase; she said that Jon should pray for this boy, pray for him as if he were his brother.

And maybe he is.

 

*******

 

“Let’s play a game,” Robb says.

They’re both sprawled naked on the sofa, the plasma screen playing an old sitcom rerun. The living room, much like their entire flat, is a dizzying patchwork of colours: vibrant woven rugs and splashy comforters, parquet floors and gaudy designer plastic furniture, pop art prints on the pastel walls. It’s a painstakingly detailed contrast to the hardwood, dark curtains and sombre family portraits back at the Stark mansion.

“What game?” Jon asks. Robb sure likes his little games, used to zero consequences for his actions, and Jon distrusts that devious grin which spreads on his brother’s face as he turns to him; their legs twine together, his arm hangs down the sofa across Jon’s chest.

“That we’re brothers,” Robb says.

“Some game that is.”

“No, I mean –” Robb drags his tongue over Jon’s cheek in an entirely unbrotherly manner. “For real. Grew up together. Same mum, same dad.”

“All right,” Jon says suspiciously. “So we don’t –?”

“No,” Robb says. “We totally want each other.” And to prove his point, he rubs his leg over Jon’s crotch. “Just never acted on it. Sometimes we touch.” Robb presses closer to his hardened cock. “We pretend it’s by mistake. We won’t admit how much we like it.” And this slight pressure is enough to make Jon hiss. “But now it’s late at night. Our parents are upstairs in their room, the other children are already asleep. And it’s just us here, watching television together.”

Jon utters a mumbled “all right”, that’s the best he has for response, because how he wishes it could’ve really been like that, and he softly bucks against his brother’s leg.

“No one can see us,” Robb says. “No one will know. So that’s when I kiss you for the first time.” His lips are closed, almost chaste, his face reddened, even while his leg is drawing circles over Jon’s cock. “Just a small kiss. But you don’t say anything, so –” The next kiss is longer, Robb’s mouth covers his, warm and wet, his tongue slips inside, fervently prods into him. And if Robb wants his game, Jon’ll give it to him, so he stays still, allows himself a barely audible moan when Robb pulls away and whispers: “And then you tell me –"

“We can’t, we must stop,” Jon says. “We’ll get caught.”

“But I don’t stop.” Robb kisses him again, greedier this time, his teeth bite on Jon’s lower lip. “I don’t care if anyone catches us.” His mouth is on Jon’s neck, leg pushing harder against his cock. “You’re scared, but I know you want it just as much. I tell you there’s nothing to worry about.”

“God.” And this moan is definitely louder. “You’re such a twat.”

“I am,” Robb says seriously. “Biggest twat ever.”

It’s so rare to hear Robb use swear words, even ones as mild as ‘twat’, that Jon feels the blood flowing down to his erection, that staggering need to throw his brother back down on the couch, cut this silly pretence, shove his cock right into him, make him scream loud enough to wake their imaginary parents up. Instead he grits his teeth, lets Robb trail his mouth to the nook of his neck, suck a bruise into his flesh, then mumble under his ear: “And I ask you, Jon, have you ever done this with a girl?”

“No,” Jon whispers back. “You?”

“Never,” Robb admits. “Do you – do you want to?”

“Wait.” Jon lowers his hand, grips Robb’s waist. “We can’t just fuck right after kissing for the first time.”

“Well,” Robb says, quite indignantly. “Actually we _did_.” And yes, that’s how it really happened, but there was nothing innocent about their first time, was there, Robb’s little mindfuck made sure of that. But even if a part of him is still bitter about it, when his brother nudges his nose into his cheek, softly begs – “Can I? Please?” – Jon nods his head.

“Then I start touching you,” Robb says, wriggling his hand between their tangled legs, digging the tip of his finger into him, and Jon squirms closer. “But you’re so tight, Jon, and we need to ease you up. And I tell you, look.” Robb then rises to his elbow, hurriedly searches the overflowing coffee table. “Sansa’s left her body lotion here.” He grabs their bottle of lube. “Maybe we can use it.” Because while Robb might like it rough – fingers pushing into him dry, the salt of his tears as they fuck him with nothing but spittle to ease his pain – when he does it he’s so careful, so gentle, his eyes seeking the tiniest twitch of discomfort, and now his finger slips inside Jon, oiled and perfect.

“Fine like that, Jon?” he mumbles, curving his fingers. “Do you like it?” And Jon nods again, moans drawn out of him as his brother finds that spot which always makes his mind float. “I can do more if you want,” Robb whispers.

“Do more,” Jon pants.

The television screen still glows in the dark of the room when Robb scrambles on top of him, enters him with a slow push, their brows pressed together, teeth scraping the stubble on his chin. And Jon used to be envious of those make-believe images, perfect American families of times long gone with their damn green lawns. But he can close his eyes and still play: it’s their house, parents sleeping upstairs, school tomorrow, and his brother’s cock, slick with their sister’s body lotion, filling him whole. And that’s real. Robb, his brother. Yes, that’s real.


	7. Luscious Mix of Words and Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robb doesn't like Mondays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million to my lovely beta [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), who KNEW IT and saved me from the wrath of homophones.
> 
> As always, thanks to dear [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for her patience and encouragement. Can't wait for that girls' night out :P

At first Robb doesn't notice when his name is being called. The drone of the professor’s voice fades like vapour in his ears: disconnected words, no tangible meaning. Only after the lecture hall suddenly grows quiet, he raises his head, realising all the other students are staring at him.

“Stark, Robert?”

“Uh,” he says, and it frightens him that even five years later, his name alone is enough to excite murmurs. “Yeah.”

“This way, please.” It’s the faculty counsellor, a short, heavy man; Robb remembers sitting in his office, discussing courses and plans before his mind drifted away, his eyes tracing the lines on the man’s too flashy tie. He collects his bag and shoves his tablet inside, and honestly this doesn't bode well, they wouldn't pull him out of class without a very good reason. Was someone hurt? Or – maybe it’s about yesterday. Police. Waiting to take him downtown to the station. No, he can’t think of that, it’s impossible, no one would connect the dots, Theon said.

But once in the office he feels a shiver rippling through his body, can barely hear the counsellor closing the door behind him: “I’ll leave you two alone,” he says. And now it’s just Robb, his hair a Monday morning mess of curls on his brow, bag slung over his shoulder, his heart thumping madly, and that broad man with his sharp little eyes sitting behind the desk –  _tête-à-tête_ now, aren't they.

“Chief Inspector Baratheon,” Robb says.

“Please have a seat.” The inspector gestures at the empty chair, and Robb tries not to slump down, keeps his back straight and his eyes still on Mr. Baratheon. Act like you've got nothing to hide, Father always says, and Robb does.

“No need for concern,” the inspector says, reaching for his suitcase. “I only wish to have a private word with you.” He opens it with a loud click. “I apologise if I gave you a fright.”

“Not at all,” Robb says, though his limbs feel so weak he thinks he might fall down. “How can I help you, Inspector?”

“I’ve known your father for a long time. Has he told you?” When Robb shakes his head, Inspector Baratheon continues: “I led the team on your case, back in the day.”

That whole period is blurry, just a fog of fear, nightmares, and Theon sitting next to his bed like a beacon of light. “Not a lot of good that did.” He frowns. “Never caught them.”

“We had suspects in custody.” The Inspector shrugs. “Your father didn't want to press charges.” And Robb didn't know that, the new information takes a few moments to sink in. His father always said the police were useless, let the culprits disappear with the money, but if that wasn't the case, why, what does it mean –? And Inspector Baratheon pulls a folder out of the suitcase, lays photographs on the desk. Two of them. A man with his throat slashed, soaked in a pool of blood. A man slouched on a toilet seat, suit trousers ripped, a slab of red meat between his legs. And Robb needs his brother, needs his friend; he feels the ceiling closing down on him.

“This,” the inspector points at the first man, “is Mr. Moore, murdered Friday night in his flat in Wimbledon. And this,” the second man, his eyes as horrified as Robb remembers them, “Mr. Kettleblack, slain in Covent Garden market yesterday morning.”

“Why –” He tries to gather his voice. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Ever heard of either of them?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Both men were witnesses in the Greyjoy case,” Inspector Baratheon says. “You _are_ familiar with the Greyjoys, I believe.”

Robb nods, as if in a daze. Because he was expecting an accusation, an arrest even, but not this. And he didn't know about this either, about those men testifying against Theon's family. Apparently, Robb bitterly thinks, there’s a whole lot he hasn't been told.

“Two murder victims who helped put the family of your –” is he actually leering at Robb? “– _bodyguard_ behind bars. His brothers quickly met their end in prison, as you probably know. His father was found dead in the showers a month ago. And then the killings started.” His thumb lands again on the photographs. “A coincidence, do you think?”

“I don’t see what you’re implying,” Robb stiffly tells him.

“I think you do.” The Inspector’s eyes are colder. “We know that Theon Greyjoy is behind this.”

“That’s absurd.” Robb furrows his brow. “Theon hasn't been in contact with his family. Not for years.”

“Blood runs thick, they say.” The inspector leans forward in his chair. “You’re a good kid, Robb, from a good family. You should tell us what you know.”

“I know nothing,” Robb says. “Theon's always with me, think I’d notice if he were up to – this.”

The inspector seems unperturbed, as if he wasn't expecting much else. “I wouldn't like to see you take the fall for this, Robb,” he calmly says. “I hate to think of what it might do to your family.” And when Robb remains silent, he adds: “I’ll send you my contact card. I advise you to seriously consider our conversation. Ring me when you’re ready to talk.” He slips the photographs back into the folder, shuts the suitcase; Robb rises from his chair, steeling himself as the room spins around him.

“You’re wasting your time, Inspector,” he says before leaving. “Theon is no more a killer than I am.”

 

*******

 

Theon says they should talk somewhere safer, and Robb hesitantly follows him to the car. The boy – no, _Jon_ , name’s Jon – is a step behind. He seems half in mind to bolt any second now; his fingers clasp the edge of his dirty yellow jumper when he gets into the backseat.

Jams, as usual, on the way downtown. The boy shifts uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the car window, and Robb still dislikes car rides – _cleithrophobia_ , yes, that’s the term – so he uses the stretching moments to examine Jon in full light. No, they don’t look alike, that much is certain, but Robb takes after his mother, in colours as well as character, or at least he so hopes. Jon is lean, almost waif-like, his hair black and matted, too long, and his eyes, grey and wild like a caged beast. Does he look like Father? Perhaps, a little bit. More like Uncle Benjen, must be something in the curve of his lips, so full, gives him a constant pout, but – then Jon turns his head and Robb quickly averts his eyes, edges towards the driver’s seat.

“Heavy traffic,” he mumbles.

“We’ll get there when we get there,” Theon blankly says. He sounds displeased, perhaps resenting Robb for dragging him into this mess. He drives them into a small arcade all the way west to Ealing, and that’s probably smart; no proper place would admit a street rat like Jon, and here they’re less likely to run into anyone they know. Once inside, Jon just stares perplexed at the menu before Robb ends up ordering them both milkshakes. Theon settles a few seats away, provides them with the illusion of privacy, his eyes narrowed and set on Jon.

“Sorry about that,” Robb says. “He just looks after me.”

“I – yeah.” Jon cradles the cup in his palms, his cheeks are slightly flushed. “I saw – on the news.” Robb feels a biting disappointment sinking inside him; he wishes for just one person who wouldn't look at him as some broken thing, the way Father tells him: You can fool the world into thinking you’re normal, Robb, but the truth is, you’re a very, very sick boy.

“Did you see –” My? Ours? Robb can’t decide. “– the rest of the family? On the news?”

“Just your father,” Jon says, slowly drinking his milkshake, as if savouring each sip, certain he’d never get to taste this again. And Robb finds his words, starts to talk: two sisters, two little brothers, there’s an uncle too. It’s better, he thinks, if he doesn't mention his mother.

“And you?” Robb finally asks. “Any siblings?”

“No,” Jon says. “Just me.” And Robb wants to pry deeper: does Father know, and how did he meet Jon’s mother, and have they, and is Jon really, but he’s scared of saying too much, afraid of driving Jon away.

“And your mother?” he asks. “What does she do?”

Jon fidgets with his straw; it looks like he’s about to completely ignore the question before he mutters: “Doesn't do much now. She’s ill.”

“Oh,” Robb hastily says, and now he’s the one to play with his straw. “What has she got?”

“Just ill.” Jon lowers his eyes, so Robb keeps on talking: how the house looks like, summer holidays in Brighton, that one time when Arya threw Sansa's phone into the pool, family dinners and his school. Jon doesn't say much, but he swallows every word, and on the ride back home Robb’s mind is already made. Theon parks a block away, leaves Jon inside but makes a point of noisily sticking the car keys into his pocket before he walks Robb to the front door.

“You’ll get him home safely?” Robb asks.

“Sure,” Theon grumbles.

“Hold on,” Robb says, and he sprints up the stairs into his room before anyone can notice he’s back. His money is inside the desk drawer; he quickly crams all the bills into an empty paper bag, and he’s nearly out of breath as he dashes down the stairs.

“Give this to him,” he tells Theon.

“Fucking hell, kid, no.” Theon's gaze is unusually harsh. “You can’t just give him money.”

“Please,” Robb says. “It’s my money. All mine. No one will know.”

“It’s nothing but trouble,” Theon says. “Give him once, he’ll want more.”

“Please, Theon,” Robb softly takes his hand, and there’s no one else in the hallway, so he buries his face in the crook of Theon's neck and whispers: “Do it for me.” Because by now he can see what Theon wants, can feel it every night as he snuggles up against his chest, and this is not lying, is it, not exactly, it’s all for a good cause –

“Fuck that,” Theon mumbles, snatches the bag out of his hand, strides off. That confusing stir stays with Robb as he enters the dining room, the warmth of Theon's skin lingers on his mouth. But Robb won’t give, he can’t. Give him once, and Theon will want more.

 

*******

 

Heavy raindrops streak the windows as Robb leaves his last class. The faculty halls are a jumble of unbearable noise, other students stepping out of the lecture halls, and Robb can feel his phone vibrating in his jeans pocket. He doesn't reach for it; his fingertips are still shaky, he can’t calm down. It’s Inspector Baratheon's contact card, it’s got to be, and he spots Theon waiting for him farther down the hall.

Robb doesn't like confrontations, never did. He prefers it when things are predictable, reliable, but fear and betrayal rile his mind, prod him head-first into Theon. “Where’s Jon?” he spits by a way of greeting, doesn't look back as he marches towards the staircase.

“Home,” Theon says.

“You shouldn't leave him alone.”

“He’s _home_ , kid. Hey.” Theon grabs his arm. “What’s the matter?”

“The matter.” Robb turns to face him. “The matter is that I had a visitor today. Inspector Baratheon? The one who doesn't know squat, remember?” A group of students passes by, and Robb sees them peeking, whispering; he lowers his voice. “He had some interesting things to say.”

Theon tightens the grip on his arm. “Not here.” He pulls him down the stairs, and Robb keeps quiet, nails digging into his palm, while they enter the underground car park. Theon clicks on the keys and their car’s headlights flash. “Get inside,” he says as he settles behind the wheel. “Tell me what happened.”

“Those men, they put your family in jail,” Robb says. “When were you going to tell us?”

“Relax now, kid,” Theon says. “There was no reason to tell you.”

“No reason?” Robb sputters. “You hid it from us. You knew that inspector. God, when he was at my house. You knew and never told us, you've put us all at risk!”

“Calm down, will you?” Theon says. “I've put no one at risk. He knows shit, I told you. He’s got no evidence, just trying to fuck with you, and you’re doing his job for him.”

And that’s why conflicts are hard, Robb thinks, it’s so simple to make him lose confidence. “You wanted them dead for yourself.” He slams his fist against the dashboard, the pain stirring his anger awake. “I trusted you and you lied.”

“I never lied to you,” Theon's voice is almost a growl. “I'm looking after you, understand?” Robb tries to answer, but Theon grips his arm again, the glare of his eyes frightfully near. “That’s your get-out-of-jail card, kid. If we’re caught, it’ll all go down on me –”

“You lied –” Robb weakly tries to interrupt his words.

“Without risking your pretty neck,” Theon hisses, pulling him closer. “Isn't that what really matters? You don’t care about anything as long as you get what you want.” Robb can feel his heavy breath on his face. “Little Robb always gets his way, and fuck the rest of us.”

“That’s not true,” Robb protests, but can he convincingly deny it after the way he’d played them before? “You messed up, stop lying –”

“Just shut up,” Theon tells him. “To the backseat, now.”

“Why?” Robb stutters, and the car suddenly feels much smaller.

“I’ve had enough.” Theon clutches his hair, gives him a forceful tug. “Lie the fuck down.”

Robb obeys, lies on his side, but he’s not good with cars, Theon must remember that; he focuses on tiny cracks in the backseat upholstery, inhales its leather scent, as Theon presses against him. “I told you to trust me, can you fucking do that?” Theon's fingers unbutton his jeans. “Or is it all about you?” He yanks them down, and a moment later Robb can feel his cock rubbing on his ass, his voice harsh: “The world revolves just around you, right?”

Robb wants to tell him that no, it’s not that: Theon lied, put them in danger, and he realises what Theon is doing, how he’s trying to turn the blame on him. But he’s numb, can’t utter a word, and when Theon pushes into him, the air gets so thin he can hardly breathe.

“Yeah, that shut you up, didn't it?” Theon whispers. “Little slut.” Each of his thrusts is long and full, his slams hard, the beat furious. “Nothing like a dick in your arse to shut you up.”

Robb tries to jerk, but he feels too faint; it’s a nightmarish scene, trying to scream but no words come out, throat sore but voice still mute. He’s shaking violently but Theon keeps going, muttering in his ear, like he always does when it’s just them two alone: “Why don’t you tell me your secret?” His hands burrow into Robb’s hips, he probably can’t tell the shivers from his shoves. “Who was it, Robb? Who was it?”

But Robb can't tell him that, never, he can't even move, and finally, his heart about to burst, he manages a desperate sob: “Theon. Stop.”

And Theon stills; he slowly pulls out, turns Robb on his back, and now he sees, doesn't he, the tears and sweat, the dilated pupils. “Shit,” he mumbles. “Oh, shit.” He frantically searches under the car seat. “Robb, shit, where’s your bag?”

All’s too small. A matchbox car. Crushing his bones. Lack of air. He blearily sees Theon reaching for the front seat, grabbing the bag, preparing the needle, then a prick on his arm. And Robb sinks, a swirl of shapes in thick darkness, the world is long gone.


	8. Fairytales Tell Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon pretends he doesn't need anything anymore from anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my most wonderful beta [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), who sprinkled fairy dust of awesomeness all over this chapter.
> 
> Also so many thanks to [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for helping me improve what needed improving, and teaching me the ways of Jon/Theon <3

“Come give me a hand.” Theon hangs up the call without waiting for a response. He feels too sickened for explanations, and the situation presents itself clearly enough: Robb still knocked out, head lolling towards the opened car door. Theon unbuckles his safety belt, passes a hand over his brow, tucking the sweaty curls aside. A mess, a fine mess, and his own fault.

He can tell himself he hadn't wanted this, meant none of this to happen, just like he kept doing while driving to their Chelsea apartment complex, but here under the fluorescents of the vacant car park, there’s no one else to deceive. Because Theon knew well enough what he was doing, certainly knew how to push Robb too far.

The lift clicks, its sleek chrome door slides open, and then Jon is by his side, wearing an oversized grey tracksuit, his eyes puffed up as if he’s been shaken awake from a nap. He peers inside the car. “Help me here,” Theon orders before Jon can pose any question, and together they drag Robb out, drape his arms over their shoulders and pull him towards the lift. Theon punches in their code, and they lean back against the glossy mirror.

“What happened?” Jon asks.

“Panic attack,” Theon says, trying to stay casual. It has happened before, he knows what Jon is about to tell him, but the words weigh heavier now, Robb weighs heavier: limp, shattered, reeking of sweat and horror, so utterly gone.

“You gave him meds.” Jon sounds almost accusatory. “He’ll be out cold for hours.”

“That’s what he wants,” Theon says. “He asks for it.”

But Jon shakes his head. “He should learn to deal with it.”

“Yeah, well, we try to help him, right?” And Theon feels a clutch in his stomach as the words escape his mouth. It’s a complete lie, isn't it. Because Robb hasn't got many limits, true, he lets them do with him as they please, likes that loss of control, to be roughed up, teased and humiliated, until spittle runs down his chin, semen dribbles down his legs, his breath comes in strained huffs and he can't muster the will to cry. But some things he just won’t do, boundaries clear and precise.

The kid will not be tied, gagged or blindfolded. He must be completely awake. Theon can – often does – fondle Jon in his sleep, but Robb will not be touched this way. It doesn't always make much sense: he won’t be fucked bent over a desk, but over the bed is fine. And yes, confined spaces, that fear has never truly left him. Theon can taste bile forcing its way up his throat, because he hasn't forgotten, not for a second, felt Robb’s terror as he thrust into him, squashing his face into the car seat, poking at him questions he knew the kid would never answer.

Jon sighs. “What if anyone sees him?”

“Well,” Theon winds Robb’s arm tighter around his neck, hoists him up as the lift stops. “Let’s hope they don’t.”

The hallway is blissfully empty; they slip inside the flat unnoticed, lay Robb down on the sofa, and while Theon stretches his sore arms, Jon places a few pillows underneath his brother, propping him to a half-sitting position. In case he gets sick, Theon supposes, Jon is more of an expert in these things. He's also deft enough at reading between the lines, because now he sits on the sofa arm and glares at Theon.

“How did this happen?” he asks.

“The car,” Theon says.

“He rides cars every day.” Jon narrows his eyes. “What else happened?”

“Yeah, well.” It’s pointless to gloss over this, Robb would tell him anyway. Better to just face the music. “We had a fight.”

“A fight? What about?”

At least the truth can serve to avert Jon’s attention. “Then I fucked him in the backseat.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Jon stays silent for a long moment, lips pressed, mouth clenched, and Theon watches as his fingers softly run through his brother’s hair. Then: “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Look, I couldn't guess he’d just lose it.”

“Bollocks.” Jon rarely raises his voice, but when he does, his eyes blaze just like while he savagely fucks his brother on all fours, and Theon can see how this seemingly frail boy had managed to survive back in his council home. “You know it’s too much, you fucking cunt. You wanted to hurt him.”

“Don’t you lecture me,” Theon angrily tells him. “I was the one who held him when he was too scared to sleep, when he was pissing his bed. It’s me who was there for him.”

“Yeah,” Jon says. “You were. And now you fucked up.”

And Theon no longer has the words to deny that.

 

*******

 

Jon’s fingers cling to the bills, and he’s got the decency to look just a bit abashed. “Take it,” Theon tells him. “He wants you to have it.”

So Jon slips the money into his pocket, and Theon ponders if he should warn him –  _I'm keeping an eye on you, don’t try any shit_ – but this is just a small, dirty boy who looks frightened enough as it is. And Theon thinks that’s as far as it goes; Robb got his brief meeting, quietened his guilt by giving this possible half-brother his savings. But that’s it. Money and boy safely delivered home. End of story.

When he wakes up the next morning the bed is empty, feels almost strange when the kid isn't there, curled up against him. He finds him kneeling on the floor of the walk-in wardrobe, an open rucksack by his feet.

Theon rubs his eyes. “What’s that?” he asks, voice hoarse from sleep.

“Old clothes.” Robb neatly folds a shirt into the rucksack. “For Jon.”

“Jesus, kid,” Theon says, and at times Robb’s ignorance truly stupefies him. “He’ll never wear that. For you it’s old clothes. For him it’s a sign saying, oi, come mug me.”

“Well, he can wear it outside.” Robb adds another folded shirt to the pile. “We’ll take him someplace nicer next time.”

“Fuck, no.” Theon shakes his head. “There won’t _be_ a next time.”

But the kid can’t be that clueless, can he, not with how he turns, still kneeling, sends his hands to embrace Theon's legs, head level with his groin, eyes so hopeful, so tempting as he glances up at him. “Please, Theon,” Robb murmurs. “I want to see him again.” He must think he’s so clever with those doe eyes, those caresses over Theon’s trousers, a teenage boy’s idea of seduction. Clumsy, ridiculous. Quite irresistible.

The afternoon finds them in an upscale Vietnamese restaurant on Sloane Street. Jon has donned a fancy enough dress shirt, but it's still too loose on his skinny frame; he leans his cheek over his palm as Robb teaches him how to use his chopsticks. Theon sits by the end of the table, slurping his noodle soup, can't shake the thought that this is the only decent meal Jon would get to eat today. And he's never seen Robb so chatty before. The kid babbles, motions excitedly, laughs when Jon tries to pick his food.

There's no reason to feel jealous. Theon's always told the kid to find more friends his age, but still he envies the light in Robb's eyes when he regards this boy wearing his old clothes. He’s relieved that it’s his night-off; he always wanks himself off, swift and harsh, before slipping into the kid’s bed, but even when he’s spent, his cock almost raw, he still feels such arousal at Robb's warmth. It’s become too much.

Usually on nights like this it’s girls he needs, faceless girls; he craves to drown himself in their dense smells of perfumes and beauty products. But tonight he desperately wants a face, a boy, young and clumsy with blushed freckled skin. And after he’s drunk enough piss-yellow, watered-down beers inside a three-story club, an industrial hangar north of the city, the details don’t seem to matter much. A kaleidoscope of dizzying lights twirls over the walls, a swarm of half-naked bodies smearing their sweat together; he looks down between empty cups and bottles strewn on the linoleum floor, sees how their legs twist and writhe, a human tapestry shedding its fears to the beat of the machines.

And the boy, he’s too short, hair too light, almost blond, but his mouth feels good sucking on his neck. And Theon’s also too rough when he drags him to the back of the club, slams the toilet door too hard, but the boy has his hands under his shirt, unfastens his belt, his fingers nimbly wrap around his cock. And no, this won’t do, it isn't right, Theon wants to slap his wanton smile, but instead he pushes hard on the boy’s shoulders, forces him on his knees. The toilet’s light is dim enough, the music still thuds in his ears, and when he feeds the boy his cock he sees little Robb Stark struggling to balance himself, holding tightly to his legs as Theon yanks on his dark red curls. And yes, he thinks, that’s how Robb should do it. That’s how he’ll make him do it.

 

*******

It’s difficult to tell the exact moment the sun sets; the sky is thick with fog, and the world only seems to grow from dark to darker. Theon leans over the balcony’s handrail, deeply inhales his fag, holding the smoke in his mouth like a sip of wine. He watches cars down below, small and colourful beetles zooming past his eyes.

He wishes he could fill his mind weaving stories of where these cars are headed, let them obliterate the scene he has just left in the living room: Robb covered in a feather duvet, mumbling incoherently, plummeting into his medicated dreams. And Jon, typically so compliant, now seething in fury, the silence growing so palpable he almost chokes on it. Yet he wants to muffle the sound of the balcony door opening, the footsteps behind him.

“Tell me what you argued about.”

He can sense Jon’s frown as sharply as the nicotine in his nose; the demand has a sinking quality, a dreamlike fall from great heights. Theon doesn't turn his head to face him. He’s weary, just wants to finish his smoke, have a shower and forget all about this day.

“Theon.” Jon’s voice is a warning growl. “You owe me an explanation.”

He takes another drag from the fag. “Come here,” he says.

Jon strides forward and closes the distance between them. “Maybe you owe me,” Theon snaps as he clutches the boy's wrist and places his hand between his legs. “Because your brother had to go into a fucking fit while I was balls deep inside him. So,” and he tugs again on Jon’s hand, makes him circle his crotch. “Unless you want to take Robb’s place, leave me the fuck alone.”

But Jon isn't easily intimidated, is he, since he presses his palm to Theon’s cock through his jeans, and snarls back: “So that’s when you want me.” He draws nearer, brushes his chest against Theon. “Only when I replace him.”

“Isn't this what _you_ want, Jon?” Theon hisses, and fag still in hand, he twists Jon’s wrist, pushes him against the railing. The steel handrail reaches to the boy’s mid-chest, and it’s so easy to bend him over. “You know what kind of shit he’s been through, and you’d still trade places with him.” Theon tugs down on Jon's tracksuit bottoms, runs his hand down the curve of his ass.

“I’ll do it.” Jon’s breath is quicker. “Just tell me what you argued about.”

“I don’t think so.” Theon squeezes his ass cheek, and he’s never been this harsh with Jon. It makes him nearly dizzy, the smoke of the fag burning out between his fingertips blows into Jon’s contorted face. “Can you take it as hard as he does?”

“Whatever he does,” Jon pants.

“I’ll do it out here.” Theon throws the cigarette butt over the railing. “So everyone knows you’re as much a slut as your brother.” He covers Jon’s ass with his palms and spreads it open, pressing the boy into the tinted glass of the guardrail. “Let’s see how much you can take,” he says, and when he shoves his fingers into the boy’s asshole, dry and hard just the way Robb likes it, Jon winces, whimpering. His muscles are so tight when he forces the fingers farther in. Theon lightly backs out, pushes them inside again until he can see his knuckles disappear, can hear Jon loudly sob.

“See? It hurts,” Theon murmurs. “You’re already crying.”

Jon braces his elbows over the steel to hold himself up. “Don’t care, do what you want,” he sniffles shakily. "But tell me what happened."

“You could never replace him.” Theon slowly takes his fingers out. Having Jon bent under his mercy, submitting to this pain, it slaps him awake from his lethargy, his self-pity. And he messed up, no doubt, but now he must assert his control. Without him to guide them, those boys would simply fall apart. “Robb wants to hurt,” he tells Jon, wraps his arms around him, softly nibbling on his neck. “You just want to be loved.”

And Jon shuts his eyes, tilts his head to let Theon kiss him up to his chin. “I don’t even know what he wants,” he mumbles. He sounds so confused, those wild raging eyes just a cover for the lost little boy he once was, still is, and Theon is washed with affection as he kneels behind Jon, parts his ass again before he leads his tongue into his crack, smears spittle over his asshole. And as he prods inside, he feels the boy loosening, his muscles giving in.

“You should never replace him,” Theon says when he rises and steadies his arms around Jon’s waist. “You’re not just Robb’s shadow.” He kisses the nape of Jon’s neck while the boy shivers under his touch. “You’re so much more than Robb’s shadow.”

When he pushes his cock into Jon, it slickly slides inside; the boy hums, bucks his hips to take more. And that’s how Theon wants it: never to hurt Jon again, never to hurt either of his boys again. And if he can’t apologise out loud, a pill still too bitter to swallow, there are other words he can say.

So he embraces Jon closer, plunges deeper, slowly sucks on his neck before he whispers in the boy’s ear:

“I’ll tell you why we fought.”

Jon’s legs wobble, his lips full of moans. Theon speaks. Finally emptied of demands, Jon writhes, and he listens.


	9. Common People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Robb mind the gap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million kisses to my precioussss beta [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife). Thank you so much and sorry for all the fish :(
> 
> Also, forever thanks to dear [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for, well, basically everything. Love you <3

The morning crowd spills under the corrugated iron front of Sloane Square tube station: red-eyed labourers, teenagers in tattered jumpers, mothers with babies tied to their backs. And Jon isn’t sure if his brother can handle this; Robb fumbles in his pockets, straightens his hoodie, glances sideways at the armed soldiers patrolling the entrance.

“We should’ve brought money,” he mutters.

“Yeah.” Jon motions around. “I reckon they wish they had money too.”

It’s been almost a year since Jon last rode the tube. He’s all but forgotten its sharp scent of sewage, the colourful line maps, that constant fear of mugging and terrorist bombs. His brother gawks at the commuters; they must appear misplaced when they are plucked out of their natural habitat of serving his food and cleaning his pool.

“You think we look all right?” Robb nervously asks.

Dirty enough, he means, and Jon thinks they do, with clothes unkempt and ill-fitting, still wet from the drizzle outside. He pulls Theon’s old coat tighter about him; the clothes they’d lifted off his wardrobe serve as a reminder that he’d have their heads if he ever finds out. Theon isn’t here to stop them, though. He’d left to collect his pay cheque earlier this morning, and they’ve more than earned the right to keep one small secret from him, Jon thinks.

“It’ll do,” he tells Robb. “Quickly now.” They wedge through the turnstile when the ticket booth attendant looks away, disappear into the throng down by the platform. It’s a risk, sure, but Robb’s asked for the full experience, hasn’t he, and this is exactly what he’s going to get. And Jon has to admit there’s vicious satisfaction in knowing that he could assimilate into Robb’s life of cocktail parties and haute cuisine, but nothing in his brother’s sheltered upbringing has prepared him for actions as simple as boarding a train.

They’re eastbound on District line, changing to Northern line at Embankment station; both trains are so packed that they struggle to stand, jostled by sudden shifts through twisting, dark tunnels. Robb is still, his distress so obvious that Jon pulls him near, lets him rest his head on his shoulder and slacken into his hug. His arms keep enveloping his brother even when he feels a man behind him slyly reaching for his back pocket. He lets that cunt find for himself that there’s nothing worth stealing inside.

When they resurface by the red bricks of Camden Town station, the rain pours down, lightning flashes through the thick fog. Robb ties his hood under his chin, the tremble of his fingers gradually calm as they wander the streets, pass gangs of kids in leather clothes and brightly dyed hair seeking refuge under the covered market stands. All they’ve got is an alias and an antique shop address, and it’s not much to go by. They circle the store, try to get a peek inside, but its windows are tinted, iron-barred, and the entrance guards begin to eye them suspiciously.

“Hungry?” Jon eventually asks.

“Yeah,” Robb says. “But we haven’t got any money.”

“Not a problem,” Jon tells him, and maybe it’s another unnecessary risk, but he so rarely gets the chance to educate his brother, and it thrills him more than he will admit. He sends Robb to order fish and chips from a street stall, and his cleaner look must do the trick. The vendor hands them the paper cones. “Run,” Jon says, and they both dash down the street, swerve into alleyways through murky rain puddles, commotion and shouts.

They trace their steps back behind the shop, and Robb leans against its stone wall. “Poor bloke,” he chuckles, catching his breath, “but that was fun.” And Jon thinks of those tourists who flock in large, armed groups into the estate; he wished that he too had a rifle to snipe them all down, one by one, so they’d know how fear truly feels like. But they’ll never understand. Robb’ll never understand, he’s just a slum tourist himself, but his laughter is sincere, his joy real, and Jon can’t help but smile back.

“I think I spilt some of mine,” he says. He takes off his coat, wraps it around them both as they share their food under the smoggy skies. And even if it’s just another game, and with a flick of his fingers Robb could return to his comfortable Chelsea life, for now they’re both just street kids, shivering under the storm, huddling closer for warmth. He presses their cheeks together, trails his lips over Robb’s skin; he wants to swallow his taste of raindrops and fried cod –

Just then the back door of the antique store swings open. Jon grabs his brother’s hand. They slip behind the stone wall and squat down as three dim figures step out: the first, holding a pistol, is one of the guards; the second is a scantily dressed girl in fishnet tights under her fake fur coat; the third, a short man with a pointed beard and greying hair, lays his arm over the girl’s shoulder as he tilts his head, listens to her words.

And Robb squeezes Jon’s hand. “This man,” he whispers. “I’ve met him before.” His face is shadowed and sombre under his hood. “With Father.”

 

*******

 

The school uniform finally makes him do it.

Jon has already let it go too far. He spends his days staring at the maddeningly slow crawl of the clock until late afternoon comes; they sit in fancy restaurants, trendy coffee shops, and true, Jon’s clothes are shabbier, but while they’re dressed the same, it’s simpler to deceive himself. And he likes Robb’s chatter, his shining eyes and how he bends closer to whisper in his ear, the warmth of his breath prickles the hair on the back of Jon’s neck.

But now the summer holidays have ended, and as he examines the college badge on Robb’s navy blue blazer, watches his fingers curl around the knot of his striped tie, Jon is brutally reminded that there are things he would never be able to fake, no matter how he’s dressed. And if this is all just a bitter mistake, then Jon needs to stop it while he still can.

So that evening Jon darts up the staircase, afraid that if he stops, his determination would dissolve, he’d just put it off for another night, like he’s been doing for the past six weeks. Because what if she denies it, what if she’s got no idea what he’s talking about? And wouldn’t Theon be pleased about that?

She’s slouched on the sofa, eyes shut, head slumped back. “Mum?” he asks, sitting next to her, but she just groans, rubs her cheeks, so sunken under her jutting bones, and Jon knows she used to be pretty once. “Mum,” he repeats. “Do you know Eddard Stark?”

She slowly turns to face him, her hair falling in filthy tangles over her shoulders, and from her clouded eyes he judges she’s just come off her high.

“Ned,” she mumbles. “Called him Ned.”

Jon’s heart races, but she’s not even aware of his presence, trapped in the narcotic haze of her memories, and it’s better if he lets her talk.

“Son of a bitch,” she says. “Sacked me right after he found out. Said he’ll give me money. Should’ve given more, it’s not enough. Need to ask for more.” Her agitation grows, her dry cough breaks through her words. “His kids, they’ve got everything. His whore wife. She’s never hungry.” Her fist burrows into the ridge of her nose, her hand is shaking.

“He needs to give more,” she tells Jon.

And he tells it to Robb the next day. Well, not about the money, or the sacking, or the whore wife, not that. His brother – he can call him that now, can’t he? – pulls him into an embrace that’s too tight and lasts a few seconds too long. Jon starts to fidget; he’s never been hugged like that before.

“I knew it,” Robb says when he finally lets go.

“Do you think –” Jon hesitantly asks, “think I could meet them? Our family?”

“Fuck’s sake, no,” Theon says. “Out of the question.”

“I’m sorry.” Robb looks pained as he shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea, Jon. If they find out… It’ll be trouble.”

Of course Jon knows it will be, it could break Robb’s perfect family, but he craves to meet the brothers and sisters behind the stories, see how Bran climbs the courtyard walls, the scrapes on Rickon’s knees, hear Sansa’s sweet voice, Arya’s laughter. And his father… The more Robb talks about them, the hungrier Jon becomes.

But Theon’s right, it’s impossible, and his resentment for his brother’s bodyguard grows as he drives him back to Hackney. Jon can’t shake off what he once saw as he waited near the Starks’ driveway: Robb’s arm draped around Theon’s waist, his face buried under his chin. He wonders what they do when they’re alone. And he was never bothered by such things, to each his own, he thinks. But when Theon parks under the estate’s walkway, dismissively tells him, “Off you go, then,” it angers Jon enough to lash out.

“You and Robb,” he says. “You’re very close.”

Theon keeps his hands on the steering wheel, doesn’t grant him a look. “Yeah. So?”

“You’re shagging?”

Yes, now he gets a glare. “I’ll drive you home, Snow. I’ll give you whatever Robb wants,” Theon hisses. “But I’m not your friend. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. And if you make any demands to Robb or his family, I’ll bury you so deep they’ll never find your bones.”

Jon shrugs. Harsh words, sure, but he’s heard worse. “So you’re shagging.”

It might just be his imagination, that slow grin which spreads across Theon’s lips. “You’re a tough little bastard, I’ll give you that,” he says. “No, we’re not.” But he wishes they were, Jon thinks. “Tell you the truth, I don’t think Robb is even interested in all that.”

“Is it because of –” Jon falters. “Of what they did to him?”

“I don’t know,” Theon sighs. “I don’t know what they did to him. He never talks about that.” His fingers tighten on the wheel. “Nobody ever talks about that.”

 

*******

 

“Petyr Baelish,” Robb says. “Said he was a childhood friend of my mother’s.” They alight at Embankment station; the curved platform wall is dotted with screens advertising fast food and running shoes, displaying the latest updates on the war-ravaged USA. “Father didn’t seem to care for him, but he had me leave the office so they could talk alone.”

Having a name also means that they’d have to share this all with Theon, but Jon puts off worrying about his reaction for later. He’s got other plans for Robb first, and he’s already restless and hard. They wait until the train slides and the platform empties, and Jon checks for security guards before he leads them behind the escalator. The station was rebuilt after last summer’s attack, but the old service door still stands, its lock easily yields.

Slowly their eyes adjust to the darkness. They climb up a winding staircase, hold to rusted banisters; the door at the top hangs off its hinge, letting into a large, circular room. Light shafts stream through fissures in the mossy ceiling, pigeons flutter over their heads.

“A control room,” Robb breathes, hesitantly treading between rotten desks and upturned chairs, passing his palm over the old machinery: metal handles, light bulbs, broken screens.

“Maybe,” Jon says. His brother always struggles for exact terms, but he prefers it nameless, purposeless, a remnant of times when things were built to last. “A girl took me here once.” She had wild laughter, wore thick black eyeliner; they sniffed glue out of a nylon bag, lay here and pretended it was their castle, a lost place in the tube for lost kids like them.

“A girl?” Robb asks. Jon presses behind him, hooks an arm around his chest. “And what did you do with her?”

“I’ll show you.” He feels a shiver sluicing through Robb’s body as he orders him: “Undress.”

“Here?” Robb juts his chin. “It’s filthy.” And it’s the feeble whine in his voice which tells Jon that he wants to be bullied into it, that they’ll play this as hard as Robb can take.

“You’re gonna be even filthier when I’m finished with you,” he tells him.

Robb quietly strips, face already flushed, and Jon grabs him with both hands, kisses circles on his neck, just like he did with her, but then he floundered in the dark, mouth blundering over her breasts. Now he knows what to do; Robb likes his nipples licked, half-moon bites on his belly, his cock sucked, slit teased with wet tongue, hands fondling his balls, fingers jabbing into his asshole. But if Jon does that, it’ll be over too soon, and he wants to break his brother apart first.

Instead he crushes their mouths together, gruffly tells him: “I went down on her, made her come.” Well, at least he thinks he did. “But you won’t get that.” Jon yanks him by the hair. “I’m gonna be rough. Understand?” Robb groans, eyes squeezed shut in pain, but he bobs his head, and it’s only fair, Jon thinks. This is his world, his territory, Robb’s just a tourist. He wanted the full experience, and by god Jon’ll give it to him.

He slams Robb against the wall, splays his palm across the small of his back to keep him in place as he takes his cock out. It jolts in his hand at this sight: his brother’s pale skin a sharp contrast to the grime and muck. It’s this thought – _Robb should not be doing these things_ – which always spurs him on.

“They’ve got the tube wired, you know,” he murmurs in his brother’s ear as he brushes his erection over his skin, guides it into his hole. “Because of the bombs.” He enters him with a sudden shove, and Robb wails, his muscles clench over his cock.

He isn’t sure if his brother actually believes all that, but his back sinks against Jon’s chest, his legs lurch, and each livid thrust makes him sob. “So right now,” Jon says, bracing himself on the wall to add more force and venom into his pounds, “someone sits in an office and watches you taking it up the arse.” He pushes harder, until his palms are coated with soot, until Robb bellows under his attack.

“They see that you like it,” Jon growls. “Your own brother fucking you.” He slips his dirtied fingers between Robb’s lips. “Show me how much you like it,” he orders; Robb sucks on the pads, nearly heaves as Jon’s free hand grinds his cheek into the coarse stone.

Jon won’t last for much longer, he knows, and he increases the pace of his strokes. “That’s it,” he mutters. “Show them how you come for me, Robb.” He tugs his fingers free from his warm mouth, wrapping them around his cock. “All that money, your higher education,” he hisses. “And you’re still my bitch.”

Robb shudders, cries when he spurts into Jon’s palm; he looks wrecked, face discoloured, splotched from exertion, but Jon wants more, he always wants more, and he lifts his hand, covers his brother’s face with his own semen, feeling his spasms around his cock. He pulls out, forcibly wrenches Robb down on his knees, looks into the clear blue of his eyes as he spills in his hair.

“Dirty enough for you?” he rasps. The intense pleasure makes him faint; he allows himself to drop to the floor, and Robb draws closer, reaches for him.

“Dirty enough,” he whispers, voice shaky, before their lips find each other, and Jon cups his brother’s cheeks, smudges blood, seed and tears into his skin, painting him as his own.


	10. Perfect Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robb's secrets sleep in winter clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to the greatest beta of all, [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), in the spirit of scientific facts, starved fairies and unnecessary italicisation!
> 
> Also warm, mushy thanks to [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for her ideas, advice and endless patience <3

The afternoon skies darken, heavy rain taps on the windscreen as shadows stretch over the opulent town houses of Kensington. Robb examines his reflection in the side mirror; the bruises aren't so bad, he thinks, just a few angry marks on his right cheek, but he can’t stop himself from touching them.

“Well then,” Theon says as the guards let them into the driveway. “When should I pick you up?” His voice is flat, but it’s an improvement over last night, when he’d silently listened to their explanations before he snatched his coat and headed to the door. Robb doesn't know where he’d been: a dingy club, some girl maybe. The stir of the blankets shook him awake at dawn, Jon’s hair brushing his face as Theon drunkenly tumbled into bed. And he hasn't said anything yet: about their irresponsibility, dirtied clothes, day trip to Camden. Not one word, but a frown now replaces his usual smile.

“No need,” Robb says. “I’ll ask Sansa to drop me back home.”

Theon sighs, clenches his mouth, hand resting on the gearstick, and it’s not his anger which scares Robb, but how it’s all kept inside him, barely contained, bursting at the seams, and Robb lets his eyes drift back to the mirror. He can never stand the silent treatment. Theon certainly hasn't forgotten, he’ll hold onto his grudge, it’ll resurface at the most inopportune time, and Robb finds himself almost wishing for his chiding. But Theon passes a finger over his cheek instead, caressing his bruises.

“Want me to come with?” he quietly asks.

“No, you’re all right,” Robb says. It’s probably best if his mother doesn't see much of Theon. The bruises are going to make this visit awkward enough, he thinks, but he can’t worm his way out of it, he’s been promising to take Sansa out for such a long time. What would she say? Hopefully nothing at all. His sister knows better than anyone else that there are things they never talk about.

Robb scrambles out of the passenger seat into the damp walkway. He's arrived too early, the little children must still be attending their after-school activities, their swimming galas, fencing tournaments. Light shines inside Sansa's room, he notices. She's probably changing from her school uniform, but otherwise the house is eerily quiet. His footsteps echo down the hall; through the windows he sees into the courtyard, its barren trees swaying under the bleak wind outside.

When the study door suddenly flings open, his heart gives a start. No, it isn't right. He’s not supposed to be here, and Robb freezes in place. “Father?” he asks. “Where’s Mother?”

“Your mother is resting,” his father says, and even so late in the day his suit stays crisp, so clean, his dark hair combed back. “Let’s have a word inside until your sister is ready to leave.” He motions into the study, and Robb follows, gaze flitting over screens, accounting books bound in leather, as his father shuts the door, moves to occupy his armchair by the fireplace, and pours himself a glass of wine. Robb takes his usual seat in front of him, as cold and vulnerable as he ever feels inside this room.

“How are you doing, Robb?” his father asks, raising the glass to his lips.

“Good,” Robb says. “I'm good.”

“That’s not what I've heard.”

“Oh?” Robb stammers.

“I've been speaking to your professors,” his father tells him. “I am extremely disappointed. Is university just a big joke to you?”

“What?” Robb faintly says. “No, Father, not at all.”

“You are not paying attention in class. Falling asleep in lectures.” His glare is scrutinising, voice harsh. “Handing in your papers late. When you even bother to do that.”

It’s all true, Robb can’t deny it, and it shouldn't come as a surprise. He's found it hard to concentrate ever since the incident, words dissipate before they reach his ears, he is lost in his daydreams – they once called it _attention deficit disorder_ , now they just call it laziness – but how could he explain this? Everything would just sound like an appalling excuse, and so he stays quiet, hand moving to cover his cheek, while he watches his father slowly sipping his wine.

“I won’t allow you to fail me again,” his father eventually says. “If you can’t be trusted to live on your own, you’ll have to move back here where I can keep watch on you.”

“No, Father.” Robb's eyes grow wider, panic seeping into him. “I’ll try harder.”

“I am not asking much of you.” He leans forward in his armchair, elbows over the armrests, and does he see the bruises? Why doesn't he say anything? “Finish your studies. Take your place in the company. Can you do that?” his father softly asks. “Or are you still a very sick little boy?”

“I can do that,” Robb whispers, his face burning. “I’ll be good, Father. I promise.”

“This is your last chance,” his father concludes. “We will not be having this conversation again.” And Robb nods; his stomach churns with indignation, but worst of all, with some sort of gratitude. Because Father wouldn't have sat him down, wouldn't have reprimanded him, not unless he really cared. He wouldn't have done any, any of it, if he didn't care.

 

*******

It’s wrong, what he feels. It’s wrong and it shouldn't be this way. Perhaps his father was right and Robb _is_ sick, damaged beyond repair, and the thoughts keep him stirring at night, tossing under his blanket, and even Theon's arms around him don’t help.

Robb knows there’s a logical explanation behind the sickly images consuming his mind. It’s got a name – _genetic sexual attraction_ , was it? – that lust between relatives who first meet as adults. But knowing its name does nothing to smother his arousal, assists him very little when he stares, yet again, at Jon’s full lips, his tangled locks falling over his brow.

Jon still doesn't talk much, and now he’s secretly glad for it. Because when Jon listens to him, even better, when he draws, Robb can let his eyes caress the line of Jon’s collarbone, barely visible under his shirt, watch how his arm muscles clench when he holds his pen. And Robb hasn't got a taste for fine arts, not really, but he likes Jon’s doodles. They’re of his world: the desolate view from his flat, rioters smashing shop windows, stray mutts lapping up sewage water.

They’re on the threshold of winter, and today, in a restaurant so overheated that they have no choice but to take their blazers off, his arm brushes over Jon’s. Robb can feel his soft hair like butterflies over his skin. It sends such a shiver down his spine; Robb cannot deny any longer just how thoroughly he is doomed.

It’s well past midnight, but he’s still awake. College would be a nightmare tomorrow, worse than usual, if he doesn't get some sleep, but the warmth in his belly unfurls and he folds up his sleeve, presses closer to Theon's prone body, tries to duplicate that flutter over Theon's arm. It’s not the same, but close enough. An idea starts forming, and at least this is not sick, not really –

“Hey,” Theon murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “All right there?”

“Yeah,” Robb says, yanking his sleeve down by the hem. “Can’t sleep.” And he knows what Theon always likes to talk about, knows what he wants, and so he indulges him, or perhaps himself and that malady spreading inside of him. “What did you do last night?” he asks.

“Last night?” Theon yawns. “There’s this bird I know, name’s Jane, lives down in Mitcham.” And he curls his fingers through Robb’s hair. “But you don’t wanna hear that.”

“I don’t?”

“No.” Theon snorts. “You like it better when it’s about boys, don’t you, kid?”

A blush creeps up Robb’s cheeks; he turns his head, stares at shadows on the bedroom wall as Theon hums behind him: “I’ll tell you about a boy.”

Robb stays quiet and listens.

“Met him in a club. Had cute freckles on his nose, red curls, maybe a bit lighter than yours.” Theon's arms wrap around him. “Such an eager slut, too. He rubbed his dick on my leg like a little bitch when we were dancing. I took him to the toilets –” And Robb doubts that the boy had red curls or freckles, wonders if it ever happened at all. He wonders if he could do such a thing, get down on his knees, unzip Theon's trousers… How would that feel? Would it be any different?

“Who does it better?” he asks. “Girls or boys?”

“Boys, that’s a given,” Theon says. “Even if you’re not into that. Hell, close your eyes and pretend it’s a girl giving you the best fucking blowjob you’re ever gonna get.”

And maybe Robb can do that, pretend. He must do something, that much is clear. He drifts aimlessly between classes; at recess he stares at his tablet, reading the same sentence again and again. And the idea which invaded him in the dark keeps expanding at daylight, it can’t be ignored, no more than Robb can ignore that malaise he feels when he sits by his brother later that afternoon, watches how he absently licks his lips, those lips –

“Robb?” Jon asks. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Robb says, wiping his face. “Long day, is all.”

He’s ill and lost, cursed and twisted, and there's nothing he can do, he simply has to find the courage. So when night falls, as Jon waits in the car, he rummages in his wallet for money. He's running out of gifts to give Jon, can’t give him what he truly wants, and his heart beats faster, sweat collects under his curls.

“I want you to give this to him,” he tells Theon.

“Sure.” Theon doesn't argue about that anymore. And he will agree, he must. Robb throws a look down the hallway, makes sure it's empty, and he won't rub himself against Theon like that boy in the club, he can’t do that, but he drapes his arms around his back until their bodies are touching.

“I also want you to kiss him,” he says.

Theon stills. “You're taking the piss?”

“Come on, you like boys,” Robb pleads. “You always talk about that.”

“And I choose the boys I like,” Theon spits. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, kid, but it ain't gonna happen.”

But Theon won’t refuse him, he mustn't, and he draws closer, runs his cheek over Theon's neck, rests his mouth under his ear.

“Do it,” Robb whispers, “and I’ll let you kiss me too.”

 

*******

The coffee shop is meticulously quaint: hand-painted tiles, flowery china, menu scribbled in chalk over the blackboard on the whitewashed walls. It’s supposed to be nostalgic, Robb thinks, a yearning for a past which never truly was – _Sehnsucht_ , that’s it – but the clutter just pains his eyes. He tries to immerse himself in his sister’s chatter about dates and boys; she talks an awful lot about both for someone who does neither.

Sansa doesn't date. He’s never seen her with a boy, and maybe she only raises the topic to get an in with him. “What about you, any girls?” She rests her elbows over the distressed wooden table. “Or boys?”

He leans back in the plush velvet armchair, narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Well,” she says, voice lowered. “People talk.”

Robb knows they do. Fingers pointing, whispers behind his back, at times to his face: hey, Stark, is it true that they cut off your toes, locked you in a box, electrocuted you, made you suck their cocks? Whatever it is, he's heard it all before.

“It’s okay,” Sansa says. “I know that Mother doesn't like Theon.” She dips a biscuit into her coffee, chews on it slowly. “But he’s always been so good to you.”

“He has,” Robb says. He thinks of Theon's silence, his dormant anger, sharp scent of leather in the backseat. “He is, but –”

“Arya and the little ones, they don’t remember what it’d been like,” she says. “But I’ll never forget. Not knowing if you’re alive, thinking how scared you must be…” Her voice wavers. “When they brought you back, I barely recognised you, so thin, and your hair, all shaved… but it wasn't just that, it was – your eyes, so empty...”

She sniffles, just a little. She’s always been quick to tears, and Robb remembers that so was he, once, that he cried and begged until he had no voice left. “Sorry,” she whispers, placing her hand over his. “You don’t like to talk about this. What I'm trying to say is, everyone just pretended that it never happened, but Theon, he pulled you through it.” She squeezes his hand. “You don't have to tell me if there’s – anything between you two. Just so you know, whatever you choose, I'm fine with that.”

He clutches her hand back; her words, so sweet and well-meant, make him hollow inside. What would she say about his other choices? He’s never felt remorse, pale dead faces don’t haunt him at night, but here, under the bright lights of this coffee shop, it hits him: the brother Sansa imagines doesn't exist. He’s unworthy of her love, there’s sickness under his bones. She wouldn't be fine if she knew how he shot a man dead, cut up another, and how they plan to track down this Baelish character, make him speak, and afterwards, Robb himself will grab him by the beard and carve a new smile into his throat.

They finish their coffee, but Robb doesn't want to go home just yet. Maybe he could make it all stop, he thinks in the car, as his sister so obliviously rests her head on his shoulder. He could tell Theon and Jon that he's had enough, that he’s finally letting the past go. He'd start to take his studies seriously, listen in class, hand in his work on time. He could make Father proud, he knows he could. And the inspector's card still weighs heavily inside his phone.

“It’s early,” he tells Sansa. “Let’s make a stop.”

His sister doesn't ask questions, and he loves her for it. She just tells her driver to let them off at the company headquarters. It is almost deserted at this hour; a few late workers hurry about to the sound of furious typing from the open plan offices. They know this building like the back of their hands, used to dash down hallways, play hide and seek under desks, behind rows of scanners and 3D printers. Robb gets his keycard, unlocks the door to their father’s office. This hasn't changed either: thickly sweet smell of cigars, the red leather sofa, diplomas gathering dust on the walls.

“Remember when we planned to scare Father?” Sansa asks. “We hid inside that cupboard.”

Robb nods. “We fell asleep, didn't we?”

“Yes.” She smiles, takes his hand in hers; they stand next to the bulletproof window, watch the city lights. “He sure was surprised to find us there.”

Robb wants to smile back, but he feels a choke in his throat. He wishes he could move back in time, when it was simple and they were just red-headed, freckled kids, laughing so loud. But he can’t pinpoint the moment it all went wrong, he wouldn't know when to start fixing the past, and tears begin to cloud his eyes.

“He loves you, you know,” Sansa quietly says, rising to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “He’s not very good at showing it, but he cares a lot about you.”

And Robb has to believe in this, he must. Or he would lose his mind.


	11. Son and Heir of Nothing in Particular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon is human and he needs to be loved, just like everybody else does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning I wrote this chapter. And it was a formless void, and darkness covered the face of the deep. Then [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) and [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) said, "Let there be light," and there was light. And I saw that the light was good, and I separated the light from the darkness. And there was evening and there was morning, the eleventh chapter.

“The floodgates of heaven shall open,” the bearded man yells, “and rain shall fall upon the earth!”

No need to become a prophet to notice that, Theon thinks. The rain hasn’t stopped since he left the Starks’ manor earlier this afternoon; it thuds over his black umbrella, flooding the worn paving stones of the Speakers’ Corner of Hyde Park. For once it is fitting: if Theon must listen to this rubbish, he should at least enjoy the right atmosphere.

“It shall blot out every living thing upon the face of the land!” The man flails his thin arms; the wind tousles his long, knotted hair until his pointed face is covered in kelp-like clumps of greying locks. A crowd gathers nearby, jeering and heckling in intervals, but they know better than to bottle him off. The disciples of the Church of the Deluge circle the preacher, arms folded sternly over their chests.

“All sinners shall be destroyed by heavenly rains!” the man shouts. “Now is the last chance to repent!”

“What a nutter,” a woman whispers to Theon, shaking her head.

“You’ve got no idea,” he tells her.

He places the soaked umbrella under his arm as he lights a smoke, watches the crowd, the hawkers selling their customary useless fare: sunglasses, pens, Santa Claus dolls. “Repent, for the end is nigh!” The man draws to a close. Theon tosses the cigarette, grinds it with his shoe heel before he pushes his way to the Speakers’ Corner railing, where the preacher now stands with his followers, rain dripping off his grey striped coat.

“Hold it,” one of the disciples says. “That’s close enough.”

“Let him pass,” says the preacher. “I thought that was you, boy.” And Theon takes the last few steps, realises that his hands are painfully clenched over his umbrella as he comes face to face with his last remaining relative.

“Good to see you, Uncle Aeron,” he says.

“Is it?” the man scoffs. “I didn’t see you at your father’s funeral. You had more pressing business, I imagine, being the Starks’ puppet.”

“I’m not their puppet,” Theon says, feeling the familiar bitter taste in his throat. And he _was_ there; he parked at the cemetery, sat inside the car in his best suit, hands immobilised on the steering wheel. But there’s no way to tell that to his uncle without sounding as weak as a child. When they last spoke, Theon was seventeen and homeless, and Uncle Aeron passed his days playing pool and getting into bar fights. Five years in prison have changed him, no doubt, that and his new religious calling, but the lines of his face are just as unforgiving.

“No?” His uncle’s laughter is dry. “They employ you to keep watch on us, not on their son. Not that the lad ever needed watching.” His fingers run down his beard, picking at the knots. “That kidnapping was a blessing in disguise, wasn’t it? Everyone felt so bad for poor old Ned, nobody cared to look at the Starks’ dealings. Say, boy, do they still sell weapons to the New York rebels?”

“I don’t know,” Theon says, uncomfortably shifting from leg to leg. “I’m not involved in that.”

“Of course you aren’t,” his uncle sneers. “You’re just Robb Stark’s whore.”

Theon manages to keep his face still, but the rage builds inside him. He’s not sure what he’s truly angry about: Uncle Aeron’s vile insinuation, Jon and Robb’s disobedience, or the spilt blood of a family he’d never loved. “I’m not –” he starts.

“Spare me,” his uncle waves his hand. “I knew you were an aberrant, but I’d never thought you’d betray your own family.”

“It wasn’t the Starks who put them in prison.” Theon says, gritting his teeth. “I’m trying to set this right, Uncle.”

“Is that so?” The man tips his head and motions Theon closer. “Would it have anything to do with Lannister men dropping like flies?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Theon quietly says. “But I’ve done some digging. There’s a man, Petyr Baelish, also calls himself Littlefinger. He was a part of it. I once saw him inside his front in Camden, but other than that, nothing. No records, no addresses. The man is a ghost.” His uncle doesn’t respond, his digits delve deeper into the thicket of his sodden hair. “You used to know all sorts, Uncle,” Theon says. “Can you help me find him?”

“I’ve left that sinful world behind me, boy,” his uncle says, lifting up his hands to the falling rain. “Perhaps you should try prayer.”

“Prayer won’t avenge our family,” Theon hisses. “Eye for an eye, right, Uncle? You’re still a Greyjoy. And so am I.”

“We shall see about that.” He draws nearer until the umbrella shelters both their heads; his eyes gleam under its cover. “It might happen that I know someone who can help you.” His breath is warm and rancid in his ear. “Have you ever heard of the Boltons, boy?”

 

*******

They are halfway back to the estate, and Theon still tells himself that he won’t do it. The road deteriorates as they continue eastwards, with broken street lamps and the occasional pothole. He turns the high-beam headlights on, as Jon curls up on the passenger seat to his left, head resting against the window, arms hugging his legs.

He’s not such a bad-looking boy when he’s properly dressed, Theon has to admit. Straight as an arrow, probably, and not his type, but Theon’s type has lately been limited to little more than auburn curls, freckled skin and a boyish blush. Still, he kissed many people he’d hardly cared about, he can do it. And when he’s back, he’ll go right into Robb’s room, claim his prize –

And even more degrading than Robb’s demand is how the prospect of being allowed to kiss the kid makes his heart beat harder. He drives too fast, hands unsteady, and it would be the ultimate joke, he thinks, if he crashes the car before touching either of them.

He forces himself to breathe deeply, concentrates on the traffic speeding past them, and by the time he parks the car, his mind is almost clear. He’s done lying to himself. He’ll do it. He shifts to neutral, pulls on the handbrake. How hard can it possibly be, one kiss? His fingers fiddle with the ignition keys as he turns to Jon.

“Well then,” he says, and the boy startles from his nap.

“Here already?” He straightens his legs, slowly rubs his eyes.

“Yeah,” Theon says. “Hold on.” And he pulls the crumpled bills from his pocket, hands them to Jon. “He wants you to have this.”

Jon still looks hesitant when he takes the money, even after it’s become a part of this ritual, as integral as the expensive restaurants, the nightly car rides. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and it is endearing: his drowsy voice, shaggy hair over his eyes. He’s a small child caught up in his brother’s sick ploy, Robb’s revelling in his power to move people around like chess pieces, and Theon feels like a predator for what he’s about to do.

Better to just fucking get it over with, he thinks as he shuffles nearer, closes in on Jon. “He also wants you to have this,” he tells him.

Jon stiffens in place when Theon presses their lips together. It’s a quick sloppy kiss, mouths closed, but the boy doesn’t resist, doesn’t push away, his hands are still on his knees, and if Theon’s going to do it, he’ll do it right. He sends his tongue, licks the boy’s lips before softly prodding them open. His hand reaches for Jon’s neck, he caresses his chin with his thumb, burrows his fingers into his hair while his tongue thrusts deep into his mouth. He pulls him closer, touches his brow to the boy’s, gives one last suck on Jon’s lower lip before releasing him from his grip.

Jon stares at him, lips still parted and wet, and Theon hates how the boy’s bewilderment makes him want to grab him and kiss him again. And Jon’s hand finds the handle, he nearly stumbles on his way out, leaves the car door hanging open as he frantically runs into the building without a word.

It’s a long ride back, and as the gleaming lights of the central boroughs invade the streets, Theon feels like his head is about to explode. Just a fucking kiss, that’s all, yet he’s already hard, and he must stop at the Starks’ driveway, his hands are shaking so badly it takes three attempts to light his cigarette. But nicotine, no, that’s not what he craves, it’s his other addiction, and he throws the fag down, storms into the house, takes the steps two by two, almost groans out loud when one of the guards blocks his way into the corridor.

“He’s in his room,” the guard says. “Asleep, yeah?”

“Yeah, cheers,” Theon mumbles. “I’ll go check on him.”

The guard eyes him strangely, but Theon doesn’t care, he slips past him, the blood rushes boiling hot inside his body as he enters Robb’s room. He shuts the door a tad too loud, leans with his back to it.

The kid isn’t asleep. Obviously. He sits up in his bed, puts his tablet aside. “Did you do it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Theon utters, and he’s paralysed, he has dreamt up so many fantasies, but now that the moment has finally come, he can’t force his hand to seize it. Robb chews on his lip, eyes so impossibly blue in this faint light; they regard each other silently, muted by the flow of these last three years which led them into this precise moment in time.

“What you did to him,” Robb whispers. “Do it to me.”

 

*******

 

Robb returns home late, leaves a trail of clothes on his way to bed, and Theon can tell straight away that he’s in one of his moods. He fights the urge to comfort him, and his uncle’s words still resound in his ears as Robb crawls naked under the warm blankets. He nestles closer, back to Jon, head resting on Theon’s shoulder; his skin is moist with tears.

Yes, Robb’s moods. He’s once again thirteen and needy, eyes murky, mouth curved down. He clings to Theon with hands and body, and he won’t say he’s sorry, won’t apologise, as if his very presence is enough to erase all that he’s done.

Sadly enough, it usually is.

“Robb.” The kid silently nibbles on his neck, but Theon doesn’t find pity within him; this vulnerability only serves to irk him. That’s their pattern, isn’t it? Robb takes what he needs and sucks him dry of emotions. Being a whore comes in many forms. “What's the matter?” he asks. “Wasn't fun with Sansa?”

“It’s not that.” His next word is whispered too low to hear, but Theon understands. More often than not, Robb's moods have to do with his father. “Can you – just –"

“What?” Theon murmurs. The nightstand lamp glows over the kid’s cheek; the bruises are horrible, scabbed, tinted dark purple, and he can’t bear looking at what Jon did, what Robb wanted done. And true, Theon is often rough, but he’s never left a wound. A line has been crossed, and worse, without him present. It stings, a reminder that he was never enough for Robb.

Robb hesitates; his hand rises to cover his mangled cheek, but Theon wrenches it down. "No. Don't hide that." He relishes the malice in his command almost as much as he despises it. And is he any better, basking in Robb’s weakness when all the kid needs is a hug? Well, he brought this on himself. Theon is under no illusions as to who sweetly talked Jon into their plan and who should pay the price. "Tell me what you want," he gruffly says, "or nothing’s gonna happen.”

Robb swallows, his chest hitches in a stifled sob. “Fuck me.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Theon says, turning him on his back. And he could take him like that, press him wailing down to the mattress, but that would be echoing the damage Jon caused in that underground tunnel. As he generously lubes himself, he considers how fucked up it is that his anger should make him gentler towards Robb.

"All right, hush now." He nudges his knee between Robb’s legs, spreading them apart. "I've got you."

But he never did, and it’s a sham, that sense of control he feels when he enters Robb, he knows it. But it’s still a rush when the kid tenses around him, moans as he slowly eases up, so pliant under his slow strokes. And he’s beautiful like that, his lashes cast down, muscles tight around his jaw, the freckles on his collarbone a star map Theon could get lost inside.

He won't, he can't allow himself to. His hips are pushing down, his cock fills Robb, touches his depths, and the kid cries, really cries now. It hurts Theon to know that he himself would never be able to fill his void, and it’s appalling how the weeping enrages him. He wants to smack Robb over his bruises, tell him to man up, but instead he thrusts lower into him.

Maybe he should tell him, he thinks, about Uncle Aeron’s lead, the Dreadfort and the tales of horror surrounding it, about Ramsay, last son of the Boltons, and emails exchanged as the sun set over the balcony. But tears are streaming down Robb’s face, he winds his arms tightly around Theon, opens himself to be taken, and this submission is just a part of his design, isn’t it? How can he even be punished when it’s by his rules they always play? Just Stark puppets, all of them, and maybe it’s time to break his game.

So he doesn’t tell Robb, not yet, and when he comes inside him, his orgasm isn’t a deafening tremor, but the last drops squeezed out of a juice box. And the invitation to the Dreadfort, each curt word Ramsay Bolton wrote, spins madly in his mind:

 _Friday. Midnight. Bring Stark_.


	12. Like Skeletons Ever So Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon wants to burn the disco down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking forever to update, life got in the way. I can only hope that the next update will be quicker.
> 
> So many thanks, like, all the thanks in the world, to my gorgeous beta [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) and to my lovely first-reader [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa). I couldn't have managed this train-wreck without you! <3

Nothing seems real, like a repeated word that’s lost its meaning. A girl, hair long and loose. Her legs and arms, tied to a cross on the circular stage. Her skin, oiled, glistening under flashes of red light, as though she’s bathed in blood. And maybe she is. Electronic beats drown her moans each time the whip lands on her back.

The Dreadfort, a befitting name, Jon thinks as he pushes up the stairs through a writhing mass of dead-eyed kids. Up from this rooftop club, the city is swallowed by mist, and over the mirrored floor tiles, it looks like they’re dancing on clouds. And Jon doesn’t want to be here. His clothes fit too tight, the leather collar scrapes the tender skin of his neck. And Robb should’ve been back by now.

He scans the crowd, spots Theon still sitting by the bar. He cuts a fine figure, clad all in black. Music and groans pound louder in Jon’s ears under the domed glass and steel roof; the corridor leading to the toilets is crammed full of twisting bodies. Over the door a girl spreads her legs while two others send their tongues to taste her.

Jon finds his brother over the toilet sink, next to a dark-haired boy folding a bill, snorting a line of coke. "Robb?" He turns him around, and at first he thinks he's simply pissed, but no, his breath is sluggish, he feels too flaccid. Barbs or benzos, some kind of downer, Jon thinks. He slowly lifts Robb’s heavy lids with his fingers, examines his bleary eyes. “What're you on?”

“Dunno, whatever,” Robb slurs, collapses onto him, and Jon can’t bring him down to the bar like that. He thinks of Theon’s silent frown, about all that Robb would be required to do before the night is done. He tugs his brother after him, elbows his way into an empty stall, thumps the toilet lid closed, and sits Robb down.

“All right,” he sternly tells him. “Snap out of it. Now.”

Robb gapes, his irises wide and dull. “Jon,” he murmurs, as if just recognising him. “Jon.” His head drops, he nuzzles his cheek into Jon’s trousers, hand hanging in mid-air before it plummets over Jon’s groin, fingers reaching around his cock. “Jon,” he repeats, and Jon can't find the words to soothe him, they communicate better with their bodies, so he lets his brother nestle his face between his legs, lays a hand on his soft curls.

“I know you’re scared,” Jon finally says.

“Not scared.” Robb’s laughter has an almost hysterical edge. “Terrified. Is it true, what Theon said?”

But Jon can’t think of what happens inside the Dreadfort after the party lights shut down. An anything-goes sort of place, Theon said. Torture and human hunting, as long as the clients pay. An urban legend, maybe, but Jon’s heard of these things before. People would disappear at the estate, followed by silent whispers: organ harvesting, sex trafficking, and yes, also that, human hunting. A fine English tradition, Jon supposes, and the rich still need their distractions.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We just need to get this Ramsay alone, that’s all.”

“Maybe don’t have to.” Robb starts unbuckling his belt with shaky fingers, pulls his cock out of his pants. It's really not the time for this, but his hot breath still wrenches a haggard rasp out of Jon’s mouth. “Can just stop. Go home. Haven’t got it so bad, right?"

“No, no.” Jon should get him back before he spews more doubt, he knows, but he dreads Theon’s reaction if he sees Robb in such a state. “It’ll all be fine,” he promises, because in truth he doesn’t believe they can stop. They've come too far and Theon won’t let them. Either way, maybe Jon doesn’t want to. It's that surge of power he felt, straddling the men who’d broken his brother, choking the life out of them. For a moment, the fear wasn’t there.

Robb’s sole response is curls flattening against Jon, wet lips pursing over his cock. It isn’t fully hard yet, he takes most of his length inside, and Jon tries to pull back. "Not now," he says, but it’s half-hearted, just for show, because Christ, Robb is good at it, even when high he's good at it, and maybe he needs it, too. His tongue is so warm when it flicks and circles; Jon’s jawline loosens, his head tilts as his brother’s rhythm flawlessly laces with synthesised drums and amplified moans. Robb watches him, blue eyes boring into his, and Jon hasn’t seen anything quite as beautiful as his brother with his cock deep inside his mouth.

He doesn’t notice the door opening before a hand is placed on his shoulder, and he jerks back in surprise.

“No,” Theon quietly says. “Don’t let me disturb you boys.”

Theon slinks back against the wall, his limbs long and slender wrapped in black, and Jon is lost, must stop, he's torn between Robb’s warmth, Theon’s wry smile. The heat rises in his belly, and he clamps the collar on his brother’s neck as he gives a final shove into him.

When Jon reopens his eyes, the stall seems dimmer, the music fainter. Theon takes a stride; he brushes his thumb over Robb’s lips, forcing a trickle of seed inside. “That’s it,” Theon whispers. “Here you are.” He runs his palms down Robb’s face. “I need you to be strong now. Can you do that for me?”

“Think so.” Robb slowly nods. “Yeah. Just don’t let it go too far.”

“No,” Theon says. “Not too far.”

 

*******

 

The keys nearly slip from Jon’s hand as he unlocks the door, his mind still hasn’t cleared of the sweltering panic; he wants to smack himself for being so careless, caught off-guard at Theon’s mercy. The kitchen light eerily flickers over the scummy sink, the peeled paint and rot on the walls.

“Jon?” That’s his mum from her usual perch on the sofa, staring at the empty space where their telly used to be. “Make some tea, will you?” She sounds relatively sober, and on any other night Jon would’ve been grateful for that, but his heart still races, and his legs wobble as he sets the kettle over the stove.

He watches steam collecting over the battered metal, his thoughts trail back to the car, to fingers stroking the line of his chin, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, that eager last suck. Theon has never kept his dislike a secret, he could’ve done anything to him, and that idea makes Jon shudder violently. But, anything – well, it didn’t feel that way. Theon’s touch was gentle, like he would have stopped if told to, only Jon was too stupefied, could barely react. He’s kissed girls before, but never has it felt so – raw.

He finds a used teabag on the counter, dips it into the scalding water until a light brown tint spreads. His mum’s hands tremble as he hands her the cup, and then the worst thing hits him: it’s not the snog which upsets him, is it. It’s what Theon said.

Jon throws himself head down on his mattress, listens to his mum smacking her lips at the weak tea, but it brings him no comfort. She doesn’t ask where he’s been, barely notices his existence, it’s much worse than being alone. He tosses about, a cold draft wafts through the broken window, and he wraps the thin sheets around him, thinks of Robb, fast asleep in his heated room, his slow breaths, how snug he must be under his heavy blankets, and perhaps with Theon’s arms around him – _He wants you to have this_ , the words keep playing in his ears.

He must see Robb, he knows, tell him exactly what his bodyguard did, but instead Jon finds himself the next afternoon sitting on an egg-shaped chair by the zebra-striped wall of an upscale café. They rarely go to the same place twice, Theon insists on it, but the crowd is always similar: college kids, hair meticulously messy, flashing their tablets, smart watches, easy laughter.

Robb fills the silence with his usual upbeat chatter, but Jon now discerns an awkward tinge that hasn’t been there since their first meeting: Robb’s words are rushed, he puts too many dollops of honey in his tea, tears the crusts off his pizza slices. His eyes are fixed on Jon as he talks, bright and strangely disarming, but every now and then he throws a side glance at Theon, as though searching for his approval. He’s so attached to Theon, isn’t he, what if he doesn’t believe Jon at all? And what if – what if Robb really wanted this? The realisation of how much he stands to lose makes Jon doubt at whose mercy he’s been all along.

The sky is painted a swirl of reds with the advancing sunset as they drive to Kensington, and Jon wants to tell them he’d rather take the tube home, but that’d seem too suspicious, he’s never done that before. Never had a reason to. Robb gives him one last look when he leaves the car, his gaze lingering, almost pleading, and that’s when Jon knows for sure that Theon hasn’t been lying.

The road stretched on, the ride seems longer than usual, and at a red light Theon fiddles in his pocket for a cigarette. Jon is pretty sure he’s not allowed to smoke inside the car. “You wanna talk about last night?” Theon asks.

“Yeah,” Jon says, though he really doesn’t. “Why did you do that?”

“Told you.” His hand moves closer and Jon jolts away, but Theon just presses a button next to the gearshift; the window opens a crack to let the smoke outside. “I’ll give you whatever Robb wants.”

“Why – why would he want that?”

“Who knows.” His fingers drum on the wheel, he takes a long drag. “Probably just having a laugh.”

But Jon doesn’t think so, this isn’t a laughing matter for Robb, and maybe it isn’t about kissing Theon at all. Maybe it’s – what, a coded message, letters in braille, about all those times he caught his brother staring, accidentally brushing against him, all those little things which meant nothing, absolutely nothing, until last night.

“He wants me to do it again.” Theon isn’t simply stating this, he’s asking for permission, and the implication of acceptance is just as terrifying as that of refusal. Jon waits until Theon parks the car, the engine still running. His brother’s desperate look drifts back to his mind.

“All right,” he quietly says.

Theon turns to him, draws nearer, and Jon closes his eyes, braces himself for the unfamiliar scratch of stubbles on his lips. Instead he feels Theon’s arms folding tightly around him; his breath quickens, he squirms, but Theon holds him securely against his chest until Jon gives in with a feeble wheeze, loosens into the hug.

“That’s it, relax,” Theon says. “I’ll never do anything you don’t want me to.”

And somehow, Jon believes him.

 

*******

 

“You won’t like the things I’m gonna say,” Theon warns them.

Robb leans back in his bar stool; he looks more alert, but clearly still under the influence of whichever pill he popped back in the toilets. Jon can only hope that Theon would chalk it up to nervousness. His twisting lips, narrowed eyes as he was watching them earlier, well, Jon doesn’t like them already.

He slips a finger under his leather collar. “Is that really necessary?” he asks.

Theon taps the bar screen for a pint. “I reckon you boys should be leashed,” he dryly says, “seeing what you get up to when I’m not around.”

Jon flinches, thinks back to last night. His brother’s sobs woke him up, and to his shame, at first Jon was almost glad, because if Theon was letting out his anger, they could put this behind them at last. But Theon’s movements were slow, he was humming into Robb’s ear, and that meant he was far from done. So Jon curled into the blanket, feigned sleep, fearing that his intervening would spiral things down, but now he can’t help speaking out loud.

“There’s got to be a better way,” he pleads.

“If you’ve got a suggestion,” Theon says, “I’m all ears.”

Jon hasn’t. He clenches his mouth. Littlefinger owns this club, amongst a long list of shady instalments, but he never gets his hands dirty, the Boltons run it for him. If anyone knows more about that mystery man, it’s them. And Jon spots the moment Ramsay Bolton walks towards the bar: people exchange looks, seats around them instantly clear. He’s big-boned and fleshy, with longish dark hair and a broad nose, and there is an unsettling quality about him, Jon thinks. It’s how his meaty lips worm into a smile when he plops his weight into an empty chair. And how his small, pale eyes are set on Robb.

“So this is Ned Stark’s boy,” he announces.

“As promised,” Theon says.

“Yes.” Ramsay draws out the sound, his voice so gentle Jon doesn’t know why it stiffens his bones. “I like a man who keeps his word.”

“Likewise. So our agreement stands, then?” Theon asks.

“Yes,” Ramsay drawls. His smile widens. “Definitely.”

“You’re gonna enjoy him. He’s a real slut.” Theon pats Robb’s hair, fingers combing through his locks. “Biggest whore I’ve ever met, he likes to take it hard.” He slowly leads his thumb down Robb’s nose, pulls at his lips. “Just look at him, got a mouth made for sucking cock.”

“I know all about boys like him.” Ramsay puts his heavy palm over Robb’s cheek, and Jon can feel his skin crawling at how Robb just sits there, motionless, his back slumped, even as the two of them are so freely caressing his face. “Does his Daddy know what he does?” Ramsay softly asks.

Theon chortles, and when Robb doesn’t respond, he tugs on his collar. It’s too harsh, Jon thinks, there’s no way it doesn’t hurt, and Theon warned them, he did, but it still feels so wrong. It’s one thing for them to taunt Robb, but here, in this club, with this stranger – Jon has to dig his fingers into his pockets to keep still. “Tell him, Robb,” Theon orders. “Does Daddy know what a nasty slag you are?”

Robb blinks, and finally a reaction: his lips tremble, eyelids flutter. “No,” he mumbles. “My father doesn’t know.”

“Go on,” Theon instructs. “Show him that cock-starved mouth you’ve got.” Robb hesitates, he glances aside, and Jon wants to nod at him, encourage him to keep up the act, do what he must, but he can’t move a muscle, feels too sickened, no, it isn’t right. And it’s too late. Ramsay slides his beefy finger between Robb’s lips, parting them open, and Robb’s eyes fall shut in resignation. His cheeks curve in, he latches onto the flesh, sucks it deep inside.

“He sure likes it.” Ramsay sounds amused.

“Yeah. I just caught him blowing some bloke in the toilets.” Theon gives a crooked smirk, and Jon is unable to meet his eyes. “I’m not enough for him, he always needs more.”

Ramsay’s hand squeezes around Robb’s neck, plunging his finger farther inside. “I’ll give him more than enough.”

Theon shrugs. “Just don’t leave any marks on his face.”

Ramsay takes his finger out. It shimmers with spittle, and he smears it over the shallow bruises on Robb’s cheek. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” he purrs. “Come on, Stark.” With that he grabs Robb’s collar, yanks him off the seat; Robb awkwardly stumbles after him, his legs faltering as Ramsay guides him through the sweaty bodies on the dance floor, up the stairs, into the back of the club.

Theon’s eyes follow them. He sips from his beer, and Jon shifts in his bar stool. “Let’s go,” he says.

“What’s the hurry?” Theon asks.

“We can’t leave Robb alone with this creep,” Jon tells him, perplexed.

“What do you need me for? You boys can take care of yourself, right?” Theon pulls a fag out of his opened pack. “I thought you liked a bit of danger.”

Jon can only stare at him, a hollow tingle creeping into his temples.

“Sit back.” Theon calmly lights his smoke. “Didn’t you want your brother to see the real world?” And Jon’s stomach knots, his head throbbing with glaring red lights, moans from the stage, heavy bass lines. Because he was dead right, wasn’t he? Theon is far from done.


	13. Not Some Broken Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robb could kill Ramsay with his bare hands if he was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken so absurdly long that I'm not even going to apologise :(  
> As always, many thanks, wines and cities in Iran to my beloved beta [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), another victim of my semi-colons scheme.  
> Also, kisses and thanks to my girl [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa). I miss you tons! <3

Ramsay has a knife. That’s the first thing Robb’s mind registers. A large, partially serrated combat knife, he flips it in his hand and catches it by its black handle. Other details take a few more moments to slide into focus: a two-way mirror installed on the right wall, a pair of small metal hoops on the desk, the click of the office door locking behind them.

“Nice blade, isn't it?” Ramsay bares large, blunt teeth. “A gift from my father.”

He tosses the knife again; the fluidity of his fingers is an eerie contrast to his flabbiness, his aura of lazy indulgence. His words are gentle enough, betraying a slight vestige of Cockney accent, not unlike Jon’s, but there’s no comfort in that. Each of the knife’s twirls makes Robb’s heart pound faster, and he retreats a step back to the desk with the sudden, clear realisation that this man doesn't like him much.

“Yeah, nice.” Robb’s voice stays still, he’s rooted to spot. He thought the barbiturates would help him glide through this ordeal –  _comfortably numb_ , right? – but instead they fossilise him: his skin is frozen bark, his fear resin seeping through the cracks.

His eyes shift to the two-way mirror; it gives an aerial view into the club and the obscenities displayed on stage. He tries to catch a reassuring glimpse of Theon and Jon, but can’t spot the bar through the cluster of distorted bodies on the dance floor. Anyway, they wouldn't be still sitting there, would they? They must be on the way here, his cavalry. He just needs to keep strong, humour Ramsay a while longer.

“Enough chitchat,” Ramsay says. He props the knife under Robb’s chin, lifting his head; its icy touch forces Robb to look back at him. “I've been waiting so long to meet you.”

“Why?” Robb asks, the word clogging his throat. He already knows why. There’s only one reason anyone ever wants to meet Robb. He still gets trailed by paparazzi at times, photos snapped, headlines about his life, recovery, absence of girlfriend. He’s what tabloid dreams are made of: rich heir, tragic past.

“Personal interest, let’s say.” Ramsay lowers the knife, but before Robb manages to exhale his tension, the man sharply twists both his arms back to the desk, through the hoops. With a press of a side button, the cuffs fasten around Robb’s wrists, locking him in place.

“It’s so rare to meet someone with your experience who’s also lived to tell the tale,” Ramsay says, and the horror swells inside Robb’s chest to his staccato heartbeats; he tries to pull his hands out, but the metal just scrapes his skin, and now he is thankful for the drugs, because otherwise – he hasn't been bound since, well – but no, he can’t think of that, and Ramsay smiles down on him.

“Uncomfortable?” he asks. “Serves you right, boy. You've been selfish.” He slowly drags his knife up Robb’s cheek; it doesn't break his skin, doesn't hurt, just feels cold, but a panicked whimper almost escapes his lips. “No interviews. No film deals. No fucking memoir. That’s ungenerous, keeping it all inside your head.” Robb fists his chained hands, orders himself to collect the fragments of his thoughts. There’s no use fighting, and it won’t be long now, he must hang on to that. Theon'll be here any moment, he’ll release him, he’ll take him into his arms. And then Robb will be the one wielding the knife, he’ll poke out Ramsay’s pale eyes one by one –

“So imagine how delighted I was when Greyjoy said he could bring you to me. He said you were his little plaything.” Ramsay pokes the blade at the corner of his lips. “That’s curious. A stuck-up bitch like you, submitting to your bodyguard. Why is that?”

Robb cringes; he’s not certain if it’s the binds, the knife, or how the question hits too close for comfort. “He’s good to me,” he mumbles. “Takes care of me.” A play-pretend, perhaps, but isn't it essentially true? An exchange of powers, that’s the deal, that’s how it works. From the moment he’d first let Theon touch him. Even in the car, even last night.

Ramsay snorts. “Told you, I know all about you rich kids.” His knife traces the line of Robb’s neck. “I used to have a brother just like you. So perfect. You think you own the world. Think you’re better than us.” He thrusts the knife under the collar. “You think that if you please Greyjoy, he’ll love you.” Its sharpened teeth dig into Robb’s skin, and yes, right there, now it’s a real cut. “But we both saw how he treated you. He despises you. No one likes a selfish, stuck-up bitch.”

Robb stifles his sob, bites down on his lip. Pills and terror cloud his mind, he thinks he can smell the blood, and Ramsay bends towards him, whispers close in his ear.

“No one will ever love a boy like you.”

It’s rubbish, all of it. They love him, Robb knows they do. Just a while longer. He swore to Theon that he would be strong. He can do that.

 

*******

 

It’s become a routine. Robb says what, but Theon says when, and as Robb soon finds out, ‘when’ means ‘all the time’.

In the morning: Robb turns on the tap, washing the sleep from his eyes, and Theon creeps behind, hooks an arm around his waist. Maybe he wants to plant kisses on the back of his neck, but Robb doesn't allow that yet, so instead Theon whirls him around, sucks trickles of warm water off his lips. He never watches as Robb gets dressed for school, but he insists on knotting the tie himself, secures it by yanking hard on the fabric until their mouths collide again.

In the school car park: Theon turns off the engine, grabs Robb’s shoulders with both hands, pinning his head to the tinted car window. His tongue slithers inside, and his breath carries a scent of morning coffee and Dunhill Reds. Just before the bell rings, Theon pulls him to straddle his lap. Robb likes this part best, even when he feels Theon's hardness through his trousers, because this is how Jon does it on the same car seat, it’s the closest Robb can get.

And in the evening: Robb turns off the lights, slinks under his blankets, listens to steps up the staircase, to whines of doors slowly opening. Theon wears nothing but his pants when he joins him under the covers, holds him close to his chest. His fingers caress and squeeze, his breath now has an added flavour, of night time in East London and of Jon. The tongue that’s been inside his brother now licks across his lips, teeth hungrily gnawing on his skin, and Robb demands: “Just like you did to him.” He never thought there were so many ways to be kissed.

The rest is just padding. Even meeting with Jon at late afternoon holds a certain ethereal quality, since they never mention what Theon does to them both. And Robb doesn't mind that, he satiates himself by receiving his brother’s kisses like second-hand smoke.

But it’s not enough, he knows he’ll soon want more, and he sits in classrooms and at family dinners; voices around him are lost, his thoughts stray, his muscles are taut. Hours bleed into one another through kisses and longing, he isn't sure what day it is anymore. He walks the school corridor, students melt into dim shapes pointlessly bustling about –  _Keystone Cops_ , all of them – and nothing is clear except a vision: his brother’s full lips sucking on his throat. And Robb bumps head straight into another kid, the dull pain of collision never for a moment replacing the image of Jon.

“Oi.” The boy elbows him. “Watch it, faggot.”

The word is casually thrown around, a risqué alternative to ‘mate’, but it snaps him out of his reverie. He feels exposed, as though this boy, the entire school perhaps, can descry the sick, titillating string binding his thoughts. And Robb shoves him back. “Say that again,” he snarls. “Go on.”

The boy scoffs. “Playing tough when your bodyguard isn't there to wipe your ass, Stark?” Other kids stop in their tracks, and the boy, emboldened by the onlookers, adds with a sneer: “Or rather fuck your ass, right?”

Robb raises his arm, all the tension flows into his fist, it so beautifully connects to the boy’s jaw. The boy still stares at him in disbelief as Robb sends his knee to his crotch, and then he’s coin-operated, he can’t stop; they both plummet, rolling and panting, clasping locks of hair and clothes, raining furious blows until blood mixes with cheers and the stench of bleach on the floor.

At noon Robb sits by the headmaster’s office as they ring his parents, and that’s how Theon finds him when he comes to pick him up: blazer undone, shirt crumpled, holding a gauze to his swollen eye.

“A fist fight?” Theon whistles. “You’re finally behaving like a normal kid.”

Robb scowls at him, but he feels too tired to take insult; his legs sway as he lifts himself off the seat. “Did they tell Father?” he asks.

“Of course,” Theon says, and Robb winces. He allows Theon to usher him to the car, slumps into the seat, his mind blank, quelling the thought of what’s bound to happen when his father returns home.

“You’re gonna have a black eye.” Theon sounds strangely pleased.

“Should've seen the other guy,” Robb tells him.

Theon laughs, then his arms are around Robb’s shoulders. “Here,” he hums. “I’ll kiss it all better.” He touches his mouth to his eyelid, tracing cuts and bruises, and asks: “What made you flip your shit, psycho boy?”

Robb hides his face in Theon's neck and mutters: “He said I was having sex with you.” He can feel Theon's smirk, his lips gradually descending down his chin, wrapping warm as a scarf around his skin.

“Oh,” Theon softly says. “But you will.”

 

*******

 

Each time anew, with every passing nightmare and dark mood, Robb promises himself that he won’t cry. Even when it’s in Theon's embrace, Theon who had seen him at his worst, he resents the futility of his dampening cheeks.

But now it’s blood wetting his skin, colouring his shirt, and warm lips hover over his earlobe. “You will tell me all,” Ramsay says, and Robb is dizzy, he doesn't want to tell this man a thing. He has expected to be touched, fondled, but this is an attack he’s entirely unprepared for. He desperately tries to wriggle free, his wrists are raw but the binds don’t give. And the irony of the situation strikes him, because he knows all too well the feeling of holding a knife to a man’s throat, sieving long-buried truths from a flow of warm blood.

“Start at the beginning.” Ramsay plants his thick thigh between Robb’s legs, spreading them apart. He looks even more imposing this close; his leg presses into Robb’s groin, almost lifting him off the floor. “A car blocked you on a side road. Two men shot your driver through the windshield. They pulled you out and drugged you unconscious. What happened next?” And it’s a clash of contradictions, flesh and friction, steel and nausea, and for Robb the lines between hurt and arousal are often blurred. Soon enough he’ll fully disconnect, his defence mechanism. His eyes will find a comforting spot, a diploma over the wall.

“Think of it as a confession.” Ramsay’s tone is so sickeningly sweet. “You kept all your secrets for yourself. Now is your chance to be absolved.” Robb has got to be strong, he promised, but his fingers shiver, the memories start to gush. His driver had fired once before his brain matter soiled the new upholstery, he remembers. They’d been back from his fencing class; Robb never touched an épée again. And the knife trails down his shirt until a button snaps off. It spirals up into the air, lands on the office floor, and yes, here’s the spot – the  _focal point_  – and Robb’s eyes are glued to it, his voice doesn't sound his anymore.

“I woke up.” The words spit out. “And I was sick.” The drugs, or maybe the hits to his head, he couldn't move, and he vomited in his own mouth, gagged on bile as he swallowed it back into his throat. “I was cuffed… blindfolded. It was dark, so small... I thought it was a coffin.” He thought he’d died, been buried alive; life imitates a Poe novel.

“Did you cry for help?” Ramsay softly asks. “They all cry for help.” His thigh burrows in, and a silenced pant fills Robb’s mouth along with the chill of those stories Theon told them, about dungeons stretching into the bowels of this garish tower. He wants to snatch Ramsay’s knife, dig it into his neck, but he can’t move, can’t escape, and why isn't Theon coming, what’s taking him so long? Robb’s lids hang heavily over his eyes, his vision limited to a button on the floor. It’s not fight or flight anymore, but simply persevere.

“Answer me,” Ramsay orders.

Robb weakly nods, because he cried until his body violently convulsed and phosphorescent shapes danced at the corner of his eyes, until he threw up again. At times the dank smell of that cellar still wafts into his nose, but most of all he remembers a shattering confusion: what was happening, why would anyone do this to him? “I don’t know how long it’d been,” he mumbles. “But someone arrived. They gave me water… fed me.”

“Rumour has it they also tortured you,” Ramsay says.

“No.” Robb shakes his head. “Nothing like that.” Because he wouldn't call it outright torture. Mishandling, perhaps. A few hard slaps, kicks to his stomach making him double over in pain. They liked to force him down on hands and knees, shove his head into his food, watch him eat like a dog. And they laughed. Sometimes he can still hear them laughing.

“Go on.”

“One of them, he was…” Robb hesitates. “Kind.” Yes, that’s the word. Robb could recognise him by the scent of his cologne; he’d loosen the chains over Robb’s legs, patiently spoon-feed him bite after bite. And Robb would speak, tell him of his mother, his little sisters and brothers, how he wanted to see them again. The kindly man had never spoken back, not once, but he let Robb lay his cheek over his legs, stroked his hair as he cried himself to sleep.

Robb falls silent, tears are caught around his eyes, and he often wonders if the man had existed at all, if he wasn't just a figment of his mind struggling to remain sane. He wasn't amongst the men they’d killed, Robb’s sure of it. And he never said those words to Jon, not even to Theon, but he’d repeated them incessantly as he clutched to the kindly man: I love you. I love you. Please don’t kill me. I love you.

“Keep talking,” Ramsay warns. But Robb cannot do this, it’s too painful, and he finally lets himself shut down. His strenuous breath slows, he loses sight of the button as his eyes search the two-way mirror for a last glimmer of hope.

“Expecting anyone?” Ramsay clicks his tongue. “You haven’t been paying attention, boy. No one cares for you. You've been sold. You've been abandoned.”

And the knife slides across his chest. “No one’s going to save you now.”


	14. Only Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon sees love disfigure him into something he's not recognising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even I find it hard to believe, but this story is not discontinued, it's not on hiatus, it's actually updated! Yes! Big mushy thanks to everyone who wrote to me during my months of silence, and again I am sorry for my belated replies. I appreciate every comment and tumblr ask, and your kind words make my heart melt each time anew <3
> 
> So many thanks that I just can't to my gorgeous beta [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), who killed my semi-colons with fire and blood while shaking fists and unmentionables to the sky. Also, kisses, grapes and persimmons to lovely [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa), who never stopped encouraging and supporting me while this chapter (very) slowly took shape. Love you both! <3

The act of killing is an old acquaintance by now, and Theon finds the rhythm soothing: the garrotte looping over the guard’s neck, desperate squirms pulling the wire tauter, gurgles of choked-up blood.

“Grab his gun,” he tells Jon, and he knows that if he lets go right now, the man might still survive. But Theon has never been especially good at stopping on time; he draws the garrotte tighter as Jon, mouth still narrowed, silently complies.

Hurting Jon, well, that was never his intention, just collateral damage, and Theon shrugs off the chill crawling into his bones. They’ll get into that office, it’ll be fine. He promised Robb not to let it go too far, and he hasn’t waited that long, carefully counting the minutes as he finished his smoke, his beer pint, ignoring the anger smouldering in Jon’s eyes.

No, Theon thinks, not too far. Just enough to make his point.

Another yank, the guard finally sags against his chest, and Theon holds the man’s palm to the panel by the office door. And it’s pointless to regret this, there’s no turning back now, so he does as he knows best, proceeds head-on when the door slides open, lets the limp body thud down on the floor.

Last beats of mechanised drums are drowned as Jon slams the door shut, but the office is still flashed by strobe lights through the window giving into the club. They shower the scene greeting them with a slow-motioned, illusory glow: Robb’s arms twisted behind his back, his shirt slashed, and Ramsay Bolton, a name which had even Uncle Aeron lowering his voice, with his thigh between Robb’s legs, lips worming around his ear. And the worst, the absolute worst, is the thousand-yard stare distorting the kid’s face. Those vacant blue eyes are more damning than anything Jon could have said.

Perhaps that’s why Theon is too slow to react. By the time he tears his gaze from Robb’s, Jon already has the gun against Ramsay’s head.

“Get away from him.” Jon’s growl sounds almost bestial. Ramsay slowly turns, his pale eyes are calm, and for a moment Theon isn’t quite sure to whom the warning is meant. His chill expands, as though he is the one facing the barrel of a gun.

“Greyjoy,” Ramsay says. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jon says. “Drop the knife.”

“We were just having such a nice little conversation,” Ramsay drawls, unhurriedly placing his weapon on the desk. “Weren’t we, Stark?”

The kid doesn’t respond. Blood paints the line of his neck, but that’s what Theon wanted, isn’t it, what he planned, a cautionary tale for Robb. “I’ll take care of your brother,” he tells Jon. “If that cunt says one more word, put a bullet in his skull.”

With that he approaches Robb, sends his hand to stroke his curls. “Hey,” Theon murmurs, “all right there?”

“Theon?” A pitiful stutter, and Theon has to remind himself just how deft Robb is at putting on masks, presenting himself so brittle, so fragile. Just one of his ploys, he’s not that weak. Now that they’ve come, he’s fine. He always will be, Theon bitterly thinks, so long as the world spins by his rules, and it’s time to take him down a notch.

“I’m right here,” he says, cradling his fingers under the kid’s chin.

“The button, on the desk,” Robb mumbles. “That’s what he used. He said… no one will ever…” He blinks, looking dazed. “Untie me…”

“Shh. I will,” Theon says. “But not yet.” The incomprehension in the kid’s eyes fills him with a frightening sense of triumph, almost as familiar as the act of killing has become.

“What are you doing?” That’s Jon, words clipped, voice on edge. His hands are unsteady, as if he’s not sure where he should be pointing the gun.

But Theon can’t allow himself pity, the tiniest crack will shatter his control, and he bends closer to Robb, touching their cheeks together. “I want you to close your eyes,” he says, and the kid shivers against him, his lids drop. “Feel the cuffs on your wrists. You’ve got nowhere to go. You can’t escape.” Each word gathers in moist beads under Robb’s ear. “Can you feel it?” he asks. “Think of all the shit that can happen to you when I’m not there to save you.”

“Fuck’s sake, stop it,” Jon snarls. “Let him go.” But he’s just as helpless, isn’t he, can’t take the gun off Ramsay’s head, so Theon presses on, going for blood, sucking in terror off the kid’s skin.

“Close your eyes, Robb,” he whispers. “That’s it.” Victory and self-loathing are all too similar by now, so oddly soothing, and there is never any going back. “Think of everything that can happen to you when I decide I’ve had enough.”

 

*******

 

“Join us for dinner,” says Mr. Stark, and Theon would much rather spend the evening in his little room in the mansion’s servants’ quarters. But it’s an invitation rarely extended, never refused, and so he utters a word of thanks, crosses the length of the oaken table and drops down into the seat next to Robb.

The kid’s eye already blooms purplish in colour, an enticing clash against his tidy hair, his buttoned shirt. And that’s the upside of skipping a microwaved meal gulped alone on the sofa, Theon thinks, so he sends his palm to settle on Robb’s leg. The kid shuffles in his chair, but he knows the deal. Theon is the one who says when. He keeps his head lowered over the soup bowl, allowing Theon to softly run fingers up his thigh while they both listen to the family’s usual evening chatter: tournaments, exam marks, Sansa making it first in class, again.

“That’s excellent, dear,” Mrs. Stark says.

Mr. Stark lowers his spoon. “Robb has also done extremely well at school,” he says. “Haven’t you, son?”

“What?” Robb startles, his leg tenses under Theon’s hand. “No, Father. Not really.”

“No need to be so modest.” Mr. Stark raises his wine glass, gaze travelling from Robb to his siblings across the table. “Your brother has managed to get himself suspended. An entire week of holiday, Robb. You must be very proud. Why won’t you tell us what you did to earn that?”

“I, uh.” Robb swallows heavily. “Got into a fight.” And Theon can feel his face growing heated, a tingling in his cheeks. It’s now clear why Mr. Stark demanded his presence; he’s the guest of honour to this spectacle, a final nail in Robb’s coffin of humiliation.

“Not just a fight.” Mr. Stark’s voice is like venom. “A true accomplishment. You sent another boy to hospital with three cracked ribs.”

“Yeah, but,” Robb says. Theon hastily bumps their knees together, digging his thumb hard into the kid’s skin. He should just shut up and bear it, talking back will only make it worse, but Robb overlooks the warning, foolishly carries on. “I didn’t start it, he was…”

“Do you think I care what _he_ did?” That’s the closest Theon has ever heard Mr. Stark to shouting. “Are you an animal, that you can’t control your temper? Tell me, Robb, are you an animal?”

Robb chews on his lower lip. “No, Father,” he mumbles.

“What do you think, Bran?” The boy nearly jumps in his seat, eyes torn wide at his father’s angry voice. “Is your brother an animal?”

“No, Father,” Bran echoes.

“Please, Ned,” Mrs. Stark finally intervenes. “Surely this can wait for later.” For once Theon is grateful for her presence; he finds that his fingers have moved instinctively, all on their own, to rest over the gun strapped to his waist. Useless, of course, but he takes pleasure in the fantasy, planting a bullet in anyone who ever dared to hurt Robb.

Mr. Stark slowly sips from his wine, then nods his head. “I won’t allow you to upset your mother any more than you already have,” he tells his son. “We will continue this in my office.”

The rest of the meal passes in silence; even Arya seems awfully interested in her vegetable plate. Afterwards Theon waits in the kid’s room, watches fleeting shadows on the ceiling, forms plans of taking Robb into his arms, mending his wounds, putting a smile on his face. Because while Mr. Stark doesn’t support corporal punishment the way his own father had, Theon knows words can cut just as deep and scab far less.

It’s forty long minutes, and when Robb arrives he only draws aside the curtains, unlocks the window, shakes his head as though scattering all thoughts away. He’s rigid, so stiff, when Theon steps up behind him, wrapping arms around his chest. For a long moment they stand like this, watching floodlights from the courtyard, bitter winter wind ruffling their hair.

“Well.” Robb shrugs. “At least that’s over with.”

He turns, burrows his face into the hollow of Theon’s shoulder, and cradles himself between his arms, as close as can be. “I…” The scent of wine lingers on his slow words. “Theon, I need…”

“What?” Theon softly asks.

Robb just twines their fingers together. Theon can feel each tremor rippling through the kid at the touch, or at the biting cold, it doesn’t matter, really doesn’t matter, since Robb now guides their joined hands in stroke after hesitant stroke over his waist, through their nestled bodies, then in between Theon’s legs.

“Boys do it better, right?” the kid breathes.

“Worlds better.” Theon barely spits the reply, his head spins. Because this is not the routine, not part of the deal. It’s what the kid wants, must be. Theon’s heart surges, so stupid with bliss.

And then Robb says: “I want you to do it with him.”

 

*******

 

They’re frozen in the moment. Nothing exists aside from their cheeks pressed together, Theon’s breath in Robb’s ear. “I can fuck you right now,” Theon murmurs. “Never had you tied up. Here’s one game you don’t play.” And maybe he should, there’s no one to stop him. He’ll tug Robb’s trousers down, lift his legs up to his chest, shove his cock hard into him until his poignant moans become real, until he’s not faking it any longer.

And Theon remembers similar moments, when he’d coerced Robb back under his control, watching his reluctance crumbling into surrender. Because while history doesn’t repeat itself, it does certainly rhyme, and they keep arriving at the same refrain:

A grand gallery opening in Soho, Robb in a grey three-piece suit. Mr. Stark welcomed the city’s high society while Theon pulled his heir up the marble stairs. Be a good boy and you might not miss daddy’s speech, he said.

A Sunday morning, Robb’s knuckles turned white, gripping the shower curtain. Little slut, Theon whispered, tell me who was it again.

An empty third-floor classroom in Robb’s college, with him kneeling under the professor’s desk, and Theon knew he was going to come all too soon from having that power in his hands. He wrenched Robb away from his cock by the hair. His palm landed on his face. The bell rang. Then again.

There was always a reason, always excuses, and it’s not Jon, or Camden, or bruises on flesh, but the constant rejection gnawing at him, so cheap, used, then tossed away. All he ever wanted was to protect Robb, that’s his job, but now his fingers undo the last buttons on the kid’s torn shirt.

“Please,” Robb mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

Theon isn’t going to do it, that’s a boundary he’s not ready to cross, he’s not a cruel man. But there’s sick satisfaction in seeing Robb lose ground and break, so Theon pushes him just a little more, caresses down his waist. ”Sorry, are you?” he asks. “What are you sorry for?”

“I was irresponsible.” Robb’s words are monotone. “I’ll try harder. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“He said he was sorry,” Jon spits. “What more do you want?”

But Theon wants more, wants to wring an endless string of apologies out of Robb’s lips, but he’d settle for a kind word, proof that he matters, that he’s not just a prop in Robb’s show. But he can’t say it out loud, he can’t let them know how it hurts, and of that terrible frustration numbing his hands. He got what he planned, Robb is so sorry, he’s begging, and it’s not enough. It might never be enough.

Theon steps away, presses the button on the desk.

Robb slowly rubs his chafed wrists, edging closer to Jon, lays his head on his shoulder; Jon pulls his brother to him. And let them comfort each other, let them hate him, Theon thinks, but even now they wait for his guidance, his decisions. He’s still useful for this.

“Well done, Greyjoy,” Ramsay says. “You definitely showed him.”

Theon turns to face him. “You should watch your words more,” he says, “considering your position.”

Ramsay seems undaunted. “I know what you want. Information about our mutual friend Littlefinger, owner of this fine establishment. But you’ll find I’m not so easily broken like your boy here.”

“We’ve got ways to make you talk,” Theon says.

“Oh, I’m sure. I can give you a few pointers, if you like.” Ramsay’s tone is derisive, dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “The secret is simplicity, Greyjoy. Complicating matters only spoils the fun. Chili powder, for example. Drop a pinch into a man’s eye.” He rubs his finger and thumb together. “The things they’ll tell you…”

Theon crosses his arms over his chest; men would usually plead for their lives at this point, and he’s starting to like this less and less. “So that’s how you want this to go?”

Jon snaps: “Let’s just finish him.”

“I want to do it myself,” Robb quietly says.

“Enough,” Theon orders. He grabs the knife from the desk, holds it to the man’s neck. “Tell us what you know. Now.”

“There’s another way, of course,” Ramsay says, voice still calm, so self-assured, that Theon has to fight a crushing sense of impotency. His hands lack the force to scare this man, just like he couldn’t make Robb say what he so craved to hear.

“Yeah?” he says. “Better spit it out before I cut your throat.”

“My family has had it with Littlefinger meddling in our affairs,” Ramsay says. “You want him dead, and so do I. We can work together.”

His blunt teeth gleam through his smile. “Simplicity, Greyjoy.”


	15. Fog of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon is stronger now, he's ready for the house, but he can't do it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A smart woman once told me, "Apologise less, write more." So here I am, apologising less and writing more.
> 
> All the thanks in the world, like seriously all of them, to wonderful [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), my darling darling beta and friend. Also, many thanks to [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa) for her brilliant ideas, and to [Neliore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/pseuds/Neliore) for her advice and support <3

Theon has made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but Jon can't bear to think about it right now. His fingers coil in his brother's hair, Robb’s hands caress lethargic circles over his back. He looks blissfully sleepy, but Jon knows it’s alcohol weighing his brother's lids down. They are tangled, sweaty and joined, but they don't yet move. For the last few days sex hasn't been about pleasure, but only about staying close.

“All right?” Jon asks. Robb hums in reply, his back arched, toes curled, so lazily graceful as he spreads his legs, allowing Jon to sink deeper. That's as far as their conversation goes, they burrow into one another, but they don't mention a thing: about amplified moans in the club, chafed wrists under cuffs, softly whispered poisonous words.

“We should get ready soon.” Robb yawns, stretches his body underneath Jon. “You're coming, right? Don't want to be there alone.”

Jon knows why his brother wants him to tag along. Robb has always despised formal events, with their fake pleasantries and wagging tongues. But alone, no, he's not, Robb's got a family, he wouldn't know the first thing about being alone, and the reply carelessly slips from Jon. “Theon'll be there too,” he says, instantly regretting it, but that's it, too late, the elephant in the bedroom has been spotted. They watch each other, as silent as their spacious flat has become now that Theon is not around.

“He's with that creep.” Robb’s eyes darken. “Again.”

“He's doing it for us,” Jon tells him. “We need to trust him.”

“I did trust him,” Robb quietly says. “Remember?”

Jon can't argue with that. His deception still clenches around his throat. They should've put a bullet into Ramsay Bolton, but instead Theon's struck a deal. He meets with him, making arrangements, he claims, planning their next move. But they used to be in this together, and now the tune is off. Theon never tells them what he does when he’s away or if he's coming back at all. Jon had hoped so badly that they could all start afresh. Instead it just keeps getting worse.

He tried his best, didn't he, from the moment they'd left the club. He helped his brother into bed, bound his wounds and cradled him in his arms as he drifted into a fitful sleep. Later, at dawn, he found Theon overflowing the balcony's ashtray under the grey sky. Though Theon didn't deign to look at him, Jon knelt by his legs and unzipped his trousers, wrapped his lips over his cock. Cigarette smoke swirled above his head as he attempted to put the ineffectual pleas into each suck: we forgive you, please come back to us.

But Theon slept on the couch that night, now he and Robb barely speak beyond mere formalities, and Jon feels himself turn icy cold at the thought. They are his family, his only family, and if they fall apart, he'd have nothing left in this world.

It's getting harder, but Jon still holds himself from thrusting when Robb’s phone rings, its vibrations rocking it across the pillow. Robb tilts his eyes, they both do, even now expecting it'd be Theon’s name on the screen.

“Pick it up.” The sudden command startles even Jon.

“It's my mother,” Robb says.

“I know,” Jon tells him. “Pick it up.”

And it's repugnant, how the hunger he's always felt at the mention of Robb's family is giving way to anger. Jon can still feel Ramsay's moist, fleshy hand clamping his shoulder as they left the office, the sweet breath in his ear. I know how it feels, Ramsay said, being the other son. His fingers squeezed Jon's skin, as if they were part of a shared conspiracy. Everything you deserve, Ramsay said, he's gonna get.

It isn't true, simply more proof that words only possess the power to destroy. And that's Theon's fault, Jon thinks, so carelessly letting it slip that he's a brother to Robb. Still, when Robb obeys, answers the phone with a drowsy hello, Jon grabs his other arm, pins it over his head, and yes, now he's moving, fast and hard, and his brother softly cries in surprise. “Yeah,” he blurts, “I'm doing fine,” and he's twisting and jerking, biting his lips after every thrust. But let him, Jon thinks, let his face flush red and his voice tremble. He still has a mother to care for him, to ask how he's been. He's got his events to attend, his fortune and future. And their father's love.

“No, I remember,” Robb rasps, “I'll be there,” and Jon lifts his brother's leg, clearing himself a better angle, and the curt “yes” and “okay” are spilling out of Robb's mouth at the same beat Jon pushes into him, slamming him repeatedly into the mattress.

“Cheers,” Robb finally utters. “See you.”

His breath is strained, the phone drops from his hand, and Jon seizes his wrist just over the bandage, pulls out and shoves back so hard, daring his brother to complain. “Go on,” he tells him. “Your mother can't hear you now.” But Robb lifts his head, crushes his lips into Jon's, raises his hips to meet his assault. And maybe that's all the reassurance Jon needs, in actions not in words. Maybe, he thinks, that's also what Theon was looking for.

He drops his pace, cups his brother's cheeks, and they are again laced close. “We've got to fix this,” he tells Robb. “Make him return.”

“Don't know what he wants.” Robb's eyes are bleary. “I give him everything I've got.”

“You give what's easy,” Jon says. He feels shame for what he means to ask, but he must, or all would be lost. “Give him what you never gave him before.”

 

*******

 

The police arrive, and it's sudden and fast. Jon's leaning over the footbridge's railing, eyes scanning the pavement below, the nylon bag searing hot under his jumper. He shifts in place, sticks his hands into his pockets, and that's when he hears the shouts.

“Five-o, five-o,” it's a discordant chorus of children's voices. They're bouncing over the car shells, banging tiny fists into metal, perfectly punctuating the approaching sirens. Jon breaks into a sprint. He dashes down the stairs, and there are loud footsteps behind him, yells to stop. He's always got away before, but he's heavier now, better fed, and it isn't just money he's carrying for once. He must get rid of the bag, he knows, but he'll be in trouble if he does. He slips into the sinuous tunnels of the estate, skidding between burnt automobiles. Maybe he can hide it, yes, he'll return later when all is clear. He reaches to his jumper, and a hand grabs him and spins him around.

There are two of them, and the copper who caught Jon's arm smacks him across the face. The other one draws his baton out. “Let go,” Jon pants. He thrashes, kicking at them, before he's slammed down against a car. The baton lands on his back, and he yelps, feebly wriggling while hands travel over his legs, roughly patting along his stomach until they pull out the bag. He's tugged up by the hair, and there's no need, they do it just to spite, the baton is raised again and red-hot pain crashes his lungs.

He's tossed into the police van, still coughing up blood, holding the vomit down his throat at every turn and stop. His mind races so closely to panic that he almost feels calm. He knows the law, been drilled on what to do in situations like that. Most importantly, never talk. Then, he's a minor, has a right to contact his legal guardian. But his mother, that's a joke, even when sober she wouldn't know how to act, so at the station Jon ends up ringing the only adult he can think about.

It's a stupid idea, Jon knows, just a child's whim. All those kisses in the backseat, Theon's fingers stroking under his shirt, his erection rubbing against his ass, that meant nothing, he only did it because he was asked. Why should he care? He's just going to hang up and leave Jon to his fate.

There's a brief silence on the other side of the line. Theon sighs, then softly curses. “Bugger that,” he says. “I'll see what I can do.”

Darkness falls through the windows when the cop kicks at his heels, snapping him awake, and Jon fights tears of relief when he catches sight of Theon's coat in the reception hall, the flourish of his pen signing the bail forms. But no, he won't give the pigs the satisfaction of seeing him break, and he keeps his face still as they uncuff his hands.

Outside the station an evening rain drizzles, wets their clothes, and Jon wobbles, his body feeling so sore. Theon drapes an arm around him, guiding him across the car park. “The filth roughed you up?” he asks.

“Not too much,” Jon says, even though Theon's palm on the small of his back seems to be the only force holding him straight.

Theon shakes his head. “Why did you do it?” he demands. “Your brother gives you all he's got. Isn't that enough?”

Jon stares at the asphalt. “I can't just quit,” he mumbles. “They… they don’t let you quit.” All true, but there's more, and he can't tell it to Theon, can't have him know that it's not enough, not when he has rent and bills to pay, not when he leaves loose notes around the flat for his mother to find, just so she doesn't wind up in some corner, whoring herself out. “Don't tell him,” he quietly begs. “Please.”

Theon studies him for a long minute. “I won't,” he finally says, then gives a crooked smile. “At least when he gets in trouble, the police aren't involved.”

Jon remembers the bruises discolouring his brother's face, and he wonders what else the two of them share. Later, back at the estate, under a spiral staircase leading nowhere, by refuse and charred tires, Theon pins him against the wall. His fingers are clasping Jon's jeans, he latches lips to his throat, grinds his cock into his thigh. Jon rests his head over the bricks, lets his eyes shut and his body respond, until his soft moan drops into the stale night air. A child's whim, he knows, but he's never felt so protected, no one has ever taken care of him before. Gratitude floods him, he wishes he had words to express it, and his legs feel unstable as he lowers himself to his knees.

“You don't have to,” Theon says.

“Does he…” Jon's hand is shaky over Theon's trousers. “Does he do it too?”

Theon helps him ease the buttons open, pull his zipper down, and Jon has a sinking feeling that he's asked too much. “He will,” Theon then replies. “If you do.”

“Why?” Jon takes a sharp breath; it’s the first time he's seen another man's cock this close, and Theon slowly brushes it across his face. “Why does he do it like that?”

“I'm just the messenger,” Theon says. “Ask him yourself.”

And Jon spreads his lips, letting Theon slide himself, so hard and swollen, into his mouth. He bobs his head down, tries to swallow it along with the questions he truly yearns to ask. Because the answers Robb has to give, well, Jon doesn't think he’s quite ready for that.

 

*******

 

The mansion is quiet at this hour, utterly deserted, and their feet barely make a sound on the hallway's carpeted floor. Light pours in through the courtyard windows, streaking ghastly colours on the family portraits strewn over the walls: Robb in t-shirt and swimming trunks, his hands on their little sisters' shoulders, laughing under the pale Brighton sun.

“What's taking your brother so long?” Theon asks, impatient, glaring at Jon with arms folded over his chest. He didn't even respond when Robb had told him their excuse, back in the car, a half-baked lie about having to pick up something from his parents' house. He only narrowed his eyes as he hit the accelerator harder to follow the new route.

Jon shrugs, continuing down the hall until his hand settles over the wine cellar's door.

“He's not there,” Theon says. “Did you forget?” There's a mean undertone to his words that he no longer bothers to hide. “Robb's scared of the dark.”

Of course Jon hasn't forgotten, that's the point behind their plan, and again he feels guilty for what he's talked his brother into. He thinks of Robb, passing here only minutes ago, girding himself to go into the only room of his childhood home inside which he's too afraid to enter. His terror must've been as palpable as the darkness awaiting behind the door.

Jon can't think of a reply, so he stays quiet, taking the first step into the engulfing black. He's halfway down the stairs, but Theon stands for a tense moment at the cellar entrance before he catches up. Irritation leaks out of his every heavy step as he hisses: “Now what kind of game is that?”

And Jon recalls a time, not that long ago, when Theon would take pleasure in their games. The risk of being apprehended always added to the fun, and Theon surely liked it when they sneaked into a storage room deep inside a posh shopping mall, he liked it well enough as Jon held his brother in a tight embrace, clamped Robb's mouth shut while Theon pounded into him fast. And he liked it, he did, so many times before, when he sucked in their whimpers over a body turned cold.

“You'll see,” Jon says, his heart beating hard. It's chilly down in the cellar, filled with a clash of scents musty and dank. They pass by rows of wooden barrels and wine stands until the last remnants of light from the open door fade from their eyes. And they can be saved, Jon thinks, if his brother makes this concession, shows Theon that he truly cares, lets his actions speak instead of hollow words.

And he then feels fingers fumbling for his hand, squeezing it hard, trembling against his skin. Robb slips between them, like an apparition under the sparse light in his formal suit and tie. He releases Jon's hand as he shuffles closer to Theon. “It's not a game,” Robb mumbles in his ear. “You always wanted to come here, right? All the things you said you'd do to me…” He presses their cheeks together, anxiety spills into his voice. “But I was afraid.”

Jon can't gauge Theon’s reaction, can't judge the gleam in his eyes, but he sees the outlines of his hand raised, laid under Robb's chin. Even his most casual touch seems so strangely possessive, Jon thinks. “You're still afraid,” Theon says. “You'd do that for me?” Jon doesn't know if he only imagines the mockery in his tone.

“Anything you want,” Robb says, but he still holds his distance, and Jon's watched his brother getting his way with Theon many times before: wrapping his arms around his back, planting kisses down his neck, rubbing himself over his body, all big-eyed and pleading, until Theon can't find the will to say no. But now Robb only stands, quivering like a trapped animal, as he adds: “I don't like it when you're mad at me.”

Theon's entire stance hardens. “That's what it's about, then,” he says. “What you like.”

“No, I…” Robb starts, but Theon cuts him off.

“That's enough,” he says, voice harsh, and he hits the light switch. Whiteness pours at them from all corners, so blinding that Jon has to blink tears out of his eyes.

“Your parents are already at the reception,” Theon says, and he clutches Robb's wrist, turns him away from the wine barrels and marches him towards the door. “We're going to be late, but that means nothing to you, does it? You'll keep everyone waiting with your little games.”

“There's still time,” Robb protests. “Theon, please.” But it's feeble, and he should try harder, should stop Theon with a well-placed touch, a kiss of faith over his lips. Instead he lets himself be dragged up the stairs, almost as though, just like the safety of those bright lights, he finds Theon's refusal a relief.

“You want a fuck, say so,” Theon sneers. “I can fuck you just fine at home.” And then they're up the stairs, and through the door, and Theon doesn't even look back as Jon starts to follow. His hand lingers over the switch, allowing his failure to shimmer ablaze under the light as he listens to his only family's receding sounds. Because Theon has entirely missed the point, and sex, no, that's not what it's been about. Just about staying close, and Jon starts doubting whether they could ever return to that.


	16. A Design for Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robb's bandages cover more than scrapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing my best to have this new chapter published before I leave on holiday today, and unbelievably - I succeeded! I couldn't have done this without the help of my beautiful beta, protector of unfinished cigarettes, [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), and the support of my wonderful friend [Neliore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/pseuds/Neliore). I love you both dearly <3
> 
> Sorry if anyone got a notification about this update twice, I'm having a major battle against AO3!

The Lannister girl doesn't care for Robb, that much is plain. She clasps her hands behind her back, her lips are pursed, and in her jeans and unruly blond curls she stands out, a glaring faux pas amidst the elegant dresses and formal suits swarming the foyer.

It’s the usual scene Robb had grown to despise: champagne glasses, salmon tartare and caviar, affected smiles. He feels queasy, in need of a drink, and he fixes his cufflinks to better hide his bandaged wrists. If only Jon was here, but he's nowhere to be seen. Robb lost him near the entrance when his parents hauled him off to greet the other invitees. He shuffles on his legs behind his father, sweeps his agitation under a courteous mask – _la r_ _ègle du jeu,_ isn't it? – but keeping up appearances, well, it’s getting hard. And the Lannisters’ presence tonight doesn't help at all.

“I'm glad you could make it,” Father tells them.

The girl quietly scoffs. Robb doesn't remember her name, but her green eyes, flecked with gold, already tell him everything he needs to know. He'd seen plenty of that quintessential Lannister face, splashed over broadsheet newspapers and glossy magazines, and not much difference between one and the other, Robb thinks, he'd gladly shoot them all. And he’d always assumed it was the paterfamilias, Tywin Lannister: he was the hand moving the pieces, the mouth whispering the orders, the name Littlefinger will gurgle when they slit his throat. But now, looking at Jaime Lannister's smug smile when he shakes Father’s hand, Robb isn't so certain anymore.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Mr. Lannister announces. He drapes an arm around the girl. “I don’t believe you've met my niece.”

“A pleasure,” Father tells her.

Robb still stares at her trainers, the phone sticking out of her pocket, and he jolts at his father's tap on his shoulder. “Oh,” he mumbles, stretching his hand. “Hi. I'm…”

“I know who you are,” she icily says.

“Myrcella,” Mr. Lannister scolds her, but the mocking grin never leaves his eyes. “At least make an attempt at civility.” He shrugs at Father. “Kids these days, huh?”

His sigh is exaggerated, as fake as all conversations twirling around them. Whenever they'd met in the past, in similar excruciating events, Jaime Lannister had made a point of clutching Robb's hand too tightly, of leaning too close. Derision would drip out of his voice as he'd enquire about Robb's well-being, as if examining his handiwork. Robb can feel the hatred boiling inside him. He's so tired of feigning kindness to those who'd orchestrated his misery, and he lets his hand drop. A dank smell resurfaces, of a wine cellar and another offer refused, and his father’s touch is heavy on his shoulder.

“Robb,” he says. “Why don't you get a drink for Myrcella while Mr. Lannister and I talk?”

“Yeah,” Robb says, “All right.” The relief of escape is also familiar. He crosses under the marble arches of the hall, skirting between guests and empty chatter. And it chews at him that his father would even speak to those people, bear them no grudge, but it shouldn't come as a surprise. Not when he dropped the case, not when he had probably called a truce with them at Robb’s expense. That’s all he is, Robb thinks, just a footnote on the Stark genealogy, used for reasons he cannot begin to fathom. And still he does as he’s told, as Father says, as Theon says. Still he dangles onto a thin rope of faith. Perhaps it’s time he took his life into his hands.

Instead he takes two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter’s platter, but when he turns around he can't spot the Lannister girl. All for the best, he decides. She didn't seem too keen on sharing a drink. The music grows louder. A melodramatic piano tinkles, two old ladies wrapped in fur scarves burst into laughter, and he catches sight of Theon, skulking towards the garden doors. His phone is to his ear, and well, judging from his hunched shoulders and darting eyes, it's quite obvious to whom he’s speaking. Robb drains one glass in a gulp, but it's weak, too light. It cannot erase the bruises around his wrists, the invasive hands under his shirt, synthesised beats and those words playing in his ears: _no one will ever love you_.

Without thinking he empties the second glass. His hands are shivering, and even surrounded by so many people, he’s never felt more alone. Theon used to be his shelter. During endless nights of horrors Robb could always find peace in his embrace. It’s terrible how everything between them has changed, wilted away, but Robb is still tethered, and he turns on his heels to follow Theon outside. At this moment, he thinks, he’d do anything just to make it right.

But Ramsay spoke true, didn't he? _A selfish, stuck-up bitch_. That’s what Theon truly thinks. Back there in the cellar, that was all the proof Robb needed.

 

*******

 

There’s a bird perched on the car park’s wire fence. The sharp wind tosses fallen leaves off the ground. A group of girls passes, clad in thick stockings and knee-length plaid skirts. The bird spreads its wings, teeters on its tiny legs, ready to fly.

“Hey,” Theon says. “Look at me.”

Robb has been drifting away. His palm is still moving, but his mind isn't there. Theon has one hand secured around his school tie, the other curled in his hair. Held this way he feels taken, possessed, and it’s a frightening thrill which makes him want to escape.

But Theon says: “Stay with me, kid.”

Robb tears his gaze away from the car window. Theon’s cock is warm under his hand. It’s larger than he’d expected, pulsating and growing even harder as Robb caresses it. He wishes that he didn't feel the urge to disconnect, that he could just experience the moment: Theon’s blue eyes fondly observing him, his fingers sifting through his curls, his heavy huffs of breath.

“Relax,” Theon murmurs in his ear. “I've got you.” He scatters a soft, fluttering line of kisses down his neck, and Robb likes this, doesn’t he, even if his mind is struggling and his thoughts keep straying outside, to birds and tree leaves, to his brother and council homes in Hackney. In the estate all trees had been burnt away during years of violent rioting, and there’s nothing now but rusted dustbins and car parts. That’s where Jon got on his knees, letting Theon slip his cock into his pretty mouth. And Robb is also hard now, isn't he, and he presses closer to Theon, his hand working a faster beat.

Theon clamps a fistful of his locks, guiding his head down. And Robb asked for it, he did, just as he has often imagined sharing the taste on his brother’s lips. But when his cheek nearly brushes Theon’s cock, cold panic seizes him. His hand stills. He squirms, trying to pull back. “No,” he blurts. “I can’t.”

“Isn't this what you wanted, kid?” A slight irritation creeps into Theon’s voice.

“It is, I swear.” Robb sinks his face into Theon’s neck. “Just give me more time.”

“Your brother had no problem with this."

It’s unfair, bringing up Jon, using him as a means to make Robb comply, even if his brother is the main reason he’s here in the car, just moments before the school bell rings. “Please,” he begs, resuming the rapid movement of his hand. “I will.” And it’s not a lie, honestly. He’ll let Theon in his mouth, and more. Whatever he does to Jon. Even that would not sate his hunger, Robb knows. He’d have to finally speak to his brother, and the idea makes his skin crawl.

Theon sighs, but he doesn't argue. His grip on Robb’s hair eases as he pulls him in for a kiss. “That’s good,” he pants. “Faster now.” Robb falls into a quick, steady rhythm, closing his eyes, sucking on Theon’s lip. He does his best to still be present, and he watches how Theon’s jaw tenses, how he’s flushed and breathless when he spills into his palm – _la petite mort_ , the name certainly fits – and it was Robb who made him this way, he could learn to enjoy it, he thinks. But then Theon wriggles a hand between his knees, and Robb jerks away. “No,” he says. “No need.”

“You’re gonna wank off in the toilets anyway,” Theon insists. “I could do that for you.”

“I'm fine,” Robb says. “I've got this.” But Theon is right, he’s too aroused and hard, filled with the image of Jon and his full lips. After his week of suspension college feels alien enough, a daily battleground for a lost cause, and he can’t go to class like this. He keeps his bag at his front as he hurries out of the car into the school grounds, shouldering his way past kids scampering into their classrooms.

It’s quiet in the toilets. This early in the morning it’s still clean, but someone’s left the water running at the leftmost sink. Robb is already late for class, but just a few minutes, some fast strokes, that’s all he needs. He reaches to close the tap when he hears footsteps approaching.

“Stark,” says a voice behind him.

Robb turns around, and the boy closes in on him. Some faded bruises are still visible on his face. He’s got blond hair, piercing green eyes, little details Robb hadn't bothered memorising when he was kicking the daylights out of him. He takes a step back until he’s trapped against the sink. The boy plants his palms over the mirror, caging Robb between his arms. His voice is disarming, quite soft, when he says: “Sorry about your eye.”

Robb swallows. If push comes to shove, well, he could probably win. But getting into trouble at school again – and his father’s reaction – well, he can’t bear to think of it. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I'm sorry too. About your, uh…” He gestures uncertainly, and the boy leans onto him until their shoulders are touching.

“But it’s true?” he breathes. “Your bodyguard. You’re fucking him?”

“No?” Robb numbly offers. Still not a lie. He’s not, not yet. But he will.

The boy doesn't listen, though, and he just crushes his mouth against Robb’s, his tongue jabbing into him. It’s happening too fast, a blurry motion, the boy’s thigh pressing in between his legs, and Robb is hard, there’s no denying this. In a trail of sloppy kisses and friction the boy leads him traipsing into a toilet booth. His fingers fumble over the buttons of Robb’s blazer, his leg rubs in circles against his cock. Water still floods the sink when the boy bolts the stall door shut, and Robb doesn't even know his name.

 

*******

 

The rain pours over the canopy of white oleanders, splashing into the marble fountain at the garden square. Robb wades down the sodden gravel path, but he has dallied, arrived too late. He sees no trace of Theon, only a few guests out for a quick smoke.

He takes a wrong turn, finds himself in the thick of the gardens, facing a garish statue of two cherubs holding hands. The music is distant and muffled here, an underwater tune, and Robb realises he’s still carrying two empty glasses of champagne. It’s an awfully pathetic sight, he thinks, and the haze of alcohol makes him chuckle out loud.

“You find this amusing?”

The words are a bucketful of icy water, sobering him up. Robb doesn't need to turn around. He’d know his father’s voice anywhere. In a few firm strides he comes to stand next to Robb by the ageing cherubs. It’s strange how Father still looks neat and dry, as if the rain, just like Robb, avoids meeting his eyes.

“You lost the girl,” his father says.

“She, uh. Yeah.” Is Robb actually stuttering? “I went out... looking for her.”

Father takes one hard look at the empty glasses. “I doubt it,” he says. “You were looking for Greyjoy, I assume. Or for that friend of yours. Is that also your idea of a joke?”

“What?” Robb dazedly asks, staring at the ground.

“Bringing your friend here,” Father says. He wraps a hand under Robb’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Do you enjoy people spreading rumours about you?”

“No, Father.” Robb feels weakened. He can’t flee the scorn in his father’s eyes, the dark shade of grey, just like Jon’s. Your son, he wants to shout, your own flesh. And he’s been childish, he should've considered the implications of bringing Jon here, but he’d risked it all just for the solace of having his brother near. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn't think…”

“You never do,” Father says, cutting him off. “You had a simple task, but even that was too much for a failure like you.” Robb chews on his lip, bracing himself for more cruel, merciless words, but what happens then is worse. His father grabs his hand, his thumb digging into his chafed skin before he draws up Robb’s sleeve. And now he sees, sees them quite well, the bandages wrapped around his son’s wrist. For a moment they’re both as still as the statue looming above them – such a mocking _mise en ab_ _îme_ – and Robb’s mind races with paltry excuses. But his father is silent, his mouth thin and brows furrowed, his eyes frozen in a deathly glare.

He releases Robb’s hand and walks away.

Robb stands paralysed, his heart leaping in his chest. Why didn't Father say anything? This can’t be the end of it. Maybe Robb committed one too many errors and his father has simply given up on him. He shuts his eyes, fighting off the tears, and when he fails at that, he wipes his face with his sleeve. That’s when he notices a flicker of a movement behind the statue, a flow of blond curls. The Lannister girl, Robb realises. She’s been there the whole time. She’s heard everything. He feels his face growing hot, humiliation and shame burrowing into him. How worthless she must find him, scolded by his father and left alone crying.

She circles around the statue. There’s an unlit cigarette between her fingers, and she motions at the glasses. “Is that my drink?” she asks.

Robb nods, and to his horror a little sniffle leaves his mouth.

“Don’t mind him,” she says. “He’s a cunt.” She shields her lighter from the wind as she adds: “Could they be any more obvious about it?”

“About what?”

“This. Us. A lovely wedding to seal the peace.” She drags on her fag, looking at him strangely. “You didn't know?”

“No,” Robb falters. “Had no idea.” He really didn't. It had never crossed his mind. Marriage of state, those words sound foreign, and with the Lannisters, no less. At least that explains the poison in her voice earlier, and Father’s fury at another plan foiled.

She studies him for a long minute, deeply inhaling her smoke. “I was rude, wasn't I? Thought you were in on it.” She frowns. “Stupid, really. Everyone knows you’re with your bodyguard –”

“I'm not –” Robb starts.

“Think I give a toss, Stark?” Her face burns with anger. She flings her cigarette stub, crushes it under her trainer. “It’s them who won’t let us live our lives. And for what, their dirty business? We’re just peons in their war games.”

Robb is quite aware of their families’ crimes: massacres in Chicago, protesters shot in Daraa, bloated bodies off the port of Abidjan. Yet another detail he tries hard not to think about. A failure, a disappointment. Selfish and stuck-up. A murderer. He would never be loved. And he knows that in spite of her rebellious act, Myrcella is just as trapped.

“If a bomb dropped over this place,” she says, “I’d just stand aside and watch them burn.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Robb says.

A fragile smile flashes on her lips. She places her hand on his shoulder, giving him a hesitant pat. “Yeah,” she says, taking a glass from his hand. “Let’s.”

Raindrops fall harsher over Robb’s cheeks, mixing with tears he can no longer hide, and they both raise their empty champagne glasses, clinking them together in a toast.

“To dead Lannisters and Starks,” Myrcella says.

And Robb quietly repeats, “Dead Lannisters and Starks.”


End file.
